


Memories of a Future Past

by Sparcina



Series: How Frostiron Could Have Started [16]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Accidental harm, Amnesia, Arc Reactor, Asgard, Blacksmithing, Canon Divergence - Infinity War, Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Danger Kink, Dominant Loki, Eventual Romance, Fantasizing, Genderfluid Loki (Marvel), Healing Magic, Infinity War, Intersex Loki (Marvel), Jealous Loki (Marvel), Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Like an ocean of it, Loki shaves Tony with a straight razor, M/M, Magical Creatures, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Mystery, POV Alternating, Possessive Loki, Pre-Avengers (2012), Prophecy, Psychological Drama, Repressed Memories, Seeress Frigga, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Strength Kink, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2018-12-25 02:56:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12026649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcina/pseuds/Sparcina
Summary: He has tried forgiving his enemies, fighting his friends, building weapons and wasting his one chance at love. It’s his first time forgetting who he is, though. He’s not as concerned as he should be, but then there’s a sorcerer staring him down. He has exactly one second to admit to himself that the man clad in leather, with his long mane of dark hair and those wild, green eyes, is a sight to behold, before a dagger is held to his throat.“What is a Midgardian doing on Asgard?”“I’m not sure.” He tries not to panic, and fails. “Do you know who I am?”In which Tony has forgotten everything, and the god of mischief has never met Iron Man, because on top of being amnesiac, Tony has been thrown two centuries into the past to fix the future... and the men who shall build it, together.There areNOspoilers for Infinity War in this fic.





	1. Everything New Under the Sun (Tony)

**Author's Note:**

> **Tags will be added as the story progresses.**

_Tony tasted blood. It coated his fingers, warm and thick, as he kneeled to watch life leave yet another set of eyes. He'd always been familiar with death, but the extent of this new carnage made Afghanistan and the first Chitauri invasion pale in comparison. With a wheezing sigh, he trailed a finger down a pale cheek, contemplating the cruel play of time and ambition._

_So many had died. Friends he'd never expected to lose, allies he'd grown fond of in spite of healthy reservations, strangers and innocents... and now the last enemy he would ever take down._

_When death claimed him tonight, at least his personal revenge would have been exacted..._

* * *

The sight that greeted him first thing that evening amazed him beyond words... and puzzled him quite a bit as well.

"What the..."

Luxurious green leaves sprouting out of transparent trunks? Tall black birds unfolding wings that spanned his entire body? What about those red and gold butterflies singing over his head?

"... hell?" He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, blinked a few times, but the landscape remained unchanged.

He pushed himself into a sitting position, eyes surveying the exotic meadow. With that kind of lush vegetation, the air should have been more humid, but it was almost dry, and pleasantly warm. What was this place? _Where_ was he?

His throat, he realized a tad belatedly, was very dry, and his whole body felt heavier than it should, as if part of the sky was resting on his shoulders, like a... burden. He licked his crackled lips. A sense of purpose registered vaguely in-between the sensation of thirst and weariness, but his mind latched on his physical needs, discarding the flicker of _something_ for more tangible resources. Like water.

All of a sudden, a pool of clear water materialized in the ground nearby, as if it was what pools did, answering silent pleas. He shivered. The song of the red and gold butterflies lost its soothing quality, and the water, no matter how perfectly clear and palatable it appeared, left a sour taste in his throat, a wrongness that was only there in his mind, because why was he here, he had to know, had to...

There came that sense of purpose, again. 

He pulled at his goatee, perplexity morphing into fear. He’s gone to bed in the penthouse last night, and last time he checked, jungles in parallel universes weren’t hunting geniuses, playboys and… and… He massaged his temples, trying to extract the word from his brain, but a headache was building up between his temples, and the sudden urge to scream forced a panicked gasp out of his mouth. A moment later, he found himself on all four, heaving and panting as if he’d just run for his life. He took a handful of his shirt and squeezed. Underneath, he could sense a circular contraption, embedded between his pectoral muscles. Horrified, he pulled up his shirt (what did  _Black Sabbath_ mean?) and brushed a thumb on the glowing thing over his heart. An arc... 

 _Fuck_ , he thought, pushing down his shirt and looking away as a wave of nausea hit him. There was a strangely friendly butterfly that seemed to study him from its blade of grass. Butterflies were shy creatures, but this gold and red marvel, its wings shining like metal blades under the sun, decided to climb up his arm, its six antenna twirling as it studied him. Metal... Iron… He was...

The hair on his neck rose to attention. An arc, he was thinking about an arc. He had a sudden vision of a room in a tower (what tower?), and then he’d forgotten all about the arc, the tower, and the words woven into his shirt.

His head swam, not pleasantly, but the nausea abated. Now was not the time to question his path of life. What he should be doing was looking around, exploring this interesting meadow and find its inhabitants. He would realize where he was when it became relevant, because he was brilliant… right?

He felt as though his mind was slowly drifting into two different parts, one of which ordered his body to stay there and wonder at itself, and the other intent on sending it on a quest for _something._ The latter won, because how could it not? This place was amazing. Every scent, every living creature… It commanded attention, and he was there, so why not give it? He didn’t matter here; everything else did.

Still, his own mind had never been good (how did he know that?) at following orders, even from within itself, so he narrowed his eyes as he watched his hands and wondered at his calloused palms. What was he? Surely not an office worker, not with hands like his. How frustrating, really, to fail to remember what he did for a living. What if it explained his presence here? Perhaps he was an explorer. Perhaps…

He felt like lying down in the tall grass and so he did, eyes turning to the wide expand of purple sky stretching far over him. He still felt dizzy, from all the questions he should ignore, but couldn’t, not entirely. Maybe if he slept, it wouldn’t bother him so much next time he woke up.

Maybe resting wasn't the way to go about it. Shouldn’t he devote every second of consciousness to the mystery of his presence, of his very identity? What if he was someone important? What if there was someone important waiting for him, back home?

Where _was_ home?

Damn, but his head hurt. A sob trickled out of his mouth at the growing sense the emptiness in his head, the gaping hole in his chest, always expending like a black hole. Acres of empty space, where his identity had faded into nothingness. His chest ached, his heart thundered in the confines of its cage, and he wanted to dig it out of there, to hold it, look at it, and know once and for all if…

He fell asleep.

*

When he woke up next, night had long since fallen, and bright stars stretched in every corner of the sky. Buzzing and screeching sounds filled the meadow, unfamiliar to him. Unfamiliar was good, he decided. He could feel how he’d needed a change in his life, whatever that life had entailed before. This place would give him that change. That chance.

His stomach growled. He was hungry, he realized with a pleasant shock. Wondering if he would have to hunt his dinner before he found any trace of civilization, he started to walk. It was so dark; where was the moon? It might have been a good idea to build a fire, but he could find no stones appropriate for the job.

When he found water next, he didn’t protest its sudden apparition and disappearance. He drank until his belly was full, grateful for the small mercy nature so seldom bestowed upon its creatures. He didn’t question that thought and kept on walking, led by a peculiar feeling that whatever it was he should look for, it wasn’t here. Wasn’t _yet_.

He walked all night. He had no watch, no cell phone (he only got to think about cellphones once before he forgot everything about its concept), and thus couldn’t say how long that was, or should be. He walked until his legs couldn’t support his weight anymore, until hunger became so fierce he started to crawl between the trees searching for edible roots and leaves. He found none that he felt like trying in the strange forest.

How strange, that he didn’t remember anything for long, except that he shouldn’t die. _Shouldn’t_ die _._ It was branded in his skin like an invisible suit, and for a moment, he couldn’t unsee the butterflies from earlier, gold and red, gold and red, blood and money and a fall far, far below…

He threw up so violently new stars shone beneath his eyelids.

“Fuck.” His voice didn’t sound like his own. He wiped his mouth clean and tried to stand. "Fuck." 

He had to get out of the woods.

*

His throat was parched, his lips bleeding and his temples throbbing by the time he left the forest behind. He longed for proper rest, for a soft bed and a good meal, but the sight of a city in the distance beckoned him forwards, pulled at his limbs like a magnet. He felt so small, but also protected, in a way he couldn’t begin to understand.

So he walked some more. Purposefully.

He decided on a break halfway to the city. Those tall towers and impressive buildings, even the bridge which, from where he stood, showed more similarities to a rainbow than an actual bridge, appealed to him like home. But this wasn’t home, of that he was sure.  

He sank to the ground and exhaled heavily. Now might be a good time to try on the local vegetation.

He had a mouthful of (very sour) grass in his mouth when a man appeared out of thin air.

 _What the hell?_ Part of his brain noted a propensity to swearing. He quickly shut it up, more interested in the lithe figure coming his way.

The man was taller than him, and slender. He wore leather boots, leather pants, and a leather tunic; a fan of leather, no doubt. His dark hair floated freely past his shoulders. He too walked with purpose, his back straight and his chin held high, as if he considered the man crouched on the ground not even worthy of cleaning his black-leather boots. But he was looking at him, oh yes: staring, even.

And he, well... He froze for a moment, uncertain of the best way to go about addressing this individual, but then sprang to his feet. The vastness of the sky and the land did spin a little, but soon enough the man in leather was standing right in front of him, regal and very obviously angry.

He had one second to admit to himself that the figure clad in black and green leather, with his long mane of dark hair and those wild, green eyes, was a sight to behold, before a dagger was held to his throat.

“What is a Midgardian doing on Asgard?”

“I’m not sure.” He tried not to panic, and failed. “Do you know who I am?”

“Even if I knew, I couldn’t care less, stranger.”

Time seemed to come to a full stop as they studied each other. His breath caught at their proximity, at the scent of leather, so familiar and yet so foreign. He wanted to laugh and to scream, to take quite a few steps back and yet to touch the man so close to him, so close. This man of the curious, suspicious gaze felt more real than anything else here did.

“Who…” He wasn’t sure what he’d meant to say, because he’d just spied specks of gold in those green eyes, and was instantly reminded of a pain so excruciating he had to touch his back to convince himself it wasn’t bleeding down his legs.

Why would he think that? And why would that man grab his arm and look at him like _that_ , with raw intensity like he, too, wished to know what lay beyond his physical presence, and his mental absence? More than he himself did?

“Midgardian?” the man whispered.

By the time he collapsed like a string-less puppet into the strong arms outstretched to catch him, he couldn’t say why pain flared up his spine, or why it was accompanied by a sensation of cold, cold dread, and...

Darkness swallowed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always loved time-travel love stories.


	2. The Stranger Who Wasn't (Loki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contractual writing is a bitch, especially with vague deadlines (all the more so when you don't care about the subject you're writing about). 
> 
> That being said, thank you for all those kudos and enthusiastic comments, lovely readers; it really warms my heart. Now with the good news: here comes Loki's point of view!
> 
> 2017-10-24: I decided to erase every mention of 'Tony' in the previous chapter, to make his amnesia all the more unsettling. Hopefully, it's not too confusing. Also, a small segment had been added at the beginning in italics (i.e., I've worked out most of the plot now :P)

Ignoring the joyous shouts and raucous laughter amounted to convince the crown prince that wits and subtlety won more wars than physical prowess: impossible. As the prince who would _not_ be reigning (for which he was infinitely grateful) but whose job as royal counselor would prove even more taxing than being king, Loki Odinson, alias the god of lies, pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to relax enough so that things wouldn't spontaneously explode. Sorcery had a mind of its own, and his was most certainly wilder than most.

"Come, brother, partake in our glorious feast!" Thor bellowed, raising a full mug of beer with enough enthusiasm that a good third of its content spilled over the rim, dripping down his trousers like alien blood. "We've got another battle to fight, and another hoard of enemies to defeat!" Shouts of approval filled the room. Fandral, Thor's best friend, was especially loud, and probably just as drunk as the warrior he was cheering. "We shall show them all," Thor went on, turning to watch his fellow warriors with his mug high in the air, "how mighty we Asgardians truly are!"

Loki didn't bother reply to any part of that speech before the racket abated some. His muscles still ached from all the swordplay he'd indulged in the last couple of days for his brother's sake. By the Norns, if he didn't love the oaf so much... With another sigh, he raised as gracefully as he could in his current state and patted Thor's bulky shoulder. Even that simple gesture wakened bruises he’d thought had already healed. "I think not, brother." Where was Fandral now? Loki didn't enjoy that one's company, but he sure was useful in redirecting his brother's attention. Unable to spot the blond, he tried another angle and deliberately let some of his fatigue show on his face.

His brother's eyes narrowed in concern, and Loki allowed himself a small sigh of relief. "If you insist on another fight tomorrow, I must rest first."

Wisely, he didn't add that he'd much rather drag the fool home to their father the king. He'd tried that trick once or twice in the past couple centuries, and it hadn't done any good; according to Odin, Thor had to learn how to lead and fight, and what better way to accomplish this than to choose an opponent, gather his troops, and quash a rebellion? Muspellheim had been taunting Asgard for decades, balking against the new laws Odin had established, and while Loki couldn’t be bothered with a few skirmishes, he had to admit, if only to himself, that his deeper nature agreed with this fiery realm. As the god of fire and chaos on top of lies, he found the fiery mountains and ignited lakes, and the magic plants and creatures calling them home, a convenient source of seiðr. Not that he would ever tell any of those 'mighty warriors', or course; sorcerers were secretive by necessity, even among themselves. Loki could count the few he knew on one hand. As for the ones he trusted…

"Good night, brother."

"Loki, wait..."

What little patience he had left vanished as Thor drunkenly held on to the hand on his shoulder. Had Loki been anything less than a god, the oaf’s hand would have crushed his fragile-looking fingers.  

"I must sleep," he snarled quietly, eyes ablaze with fury. "I shall see you on the morrow."

Thor pouted, but let him go. "Good night to you too, then, brother."

Back in his quarters for the night, Loki snapped his fingers, closing the curtains and locking the door with magic. Age was finally catching up with him, he mused as he sank into the hard mattress, arms extended on each side. He was closing on to two millennia; not old by any standard, that was for sure, but still an age at which he’d much rather exhaust himself using other methods. Methods that were more… enjoyable. Methods that suited his sensual nature better. Loki had never been against blood or swordplay, but part of him would always yearn for sex, dances and mind games like none of those warriors out there partying ever would.

As he discarded his clothes with another spell, he thought back to last week, when he'd last lain with someone, a short Aesir with chocolate brown eyes that excited both his mind and his body. Loki always met this one under the guise of a woman, for obvious reasons, but as soon as they were behind closed doors, with lock spells set all around the place, he reverted back to his usual shape and lost himself to the pleasures of the flesh, fucking the other Aesir into the mattress until they'd both orgasmed multiple times.

Loki rolled to his side and rubbed a hand down his face, eyes squeezed shut. This Aesir had been the best lover Loki had met (and trained) in the last century, and now he was dead, killed on a battlefield of Thor's choosing. Loki had not even been aware of his participation, and it was no wonder, with how little time he devoted to know his lovers. They offered relief to him, nothing more. He didn't want more, didn't care for more.

Still, having to seek out a replacement, one of those rare Aesir males who were interested in other men, was inconvenient.

*

The battle lasted well into the following night, much to Thor' and his followers’ joy.

Loki knew better than to voice his complains, and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of a hand in silence.

His knuckles came away. Hissing in annoyance, and aware that the leash on his self-control would snap soon, he whispered a cleaning spell. It didn’t matter, that it wasn’t his blood; his two-layered shield should have kept his enemies’ blood from splashing him like a common warrior. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why the others always insisted on coming out of a battlefield covered in blood and gore with a grin. Were they really so base, so simple, to need the proof of death adorning their armor and skin? Loki turned his back to the crowd of merry dimwits, summoned a small basin of water, and drank with greed before using the rest to clean the blood from his face.

If only it wasn’t so warm… Even at nighttime, the temperature rarely dropped below forty-seven. Loki inhaled deeply as he renewed the temperature shield wrapped around him like a second skin. By all rights, the others should already have complained of the heat. After all, they were all whiny children, who always counted on him to take care of their problems, but whispered behind his back because of the means he used to solve them.

By the Norns, how was it that he was the one most affected by the temperature? He wasn't one who complained easily, and even he would have been much more impatient had he not been able to regulate his body temperature with magic. Perhaps he’d sustained more wounds than he’d first thought.

He finished cleaning himself, then vanished the basin. Now would be the perfect moment to replenish his seiðr. Making sure one last time that the others were all busy boasting about the heads they’d severed and the limbs they’d cut down, he sat down on the ground. 

His skin glowed faintly as he called the fiery magic embedded in Muspellheim to him; a faint glow that would not attract notice… or so he believed, before noting the intensity of the glow. Frowning, he ran a finger up his forearm, studying the runes brought about by the spell. Light blue. Shouldn't the glow appear white? He tried to recall if he'd done anything out of the ordinary recently, but beside a visit to the weapon vault and the three battles his brother had insisted he participate in… Since the new color wasn't associated to any sort of pain or discomfort, he let it go for now.

The other warriors made way for him as he walked to Thor. He might not be as physically imposing as his brother, but his negotiating skills, and his fierceness with knives, had earned him respect over the centuries. Well, respect... Nobody exactly respected his magic, nor would they respect his sexual proclivities if they'd known, but as long as he made a show of twisting spells to kill, they tolerated it well enough.

They were fools, all of them.

"I shall tell Father that everything went according to plan," he said in a mocking tone, clasping hands with Thor. "Please try not to drink  _too much_ this time, will you? Mother was much distressed by your state when we last attended..."

Thor had a faint blush to his cheeks when he cut him. "I will be reasonable, brother. Like I always am," he added, because that was how Thor was; never one to admit a mistake, even if it might kill him one day.

It was Loki’s duty to make sure it didn’t.

"Be careful, Loki."

"You know I will."

With a last forced wink, Loki took a step back and disappeared.

*

Teleportation was an art he’d mastered in a very short time, at least from an Aesir’s perspective. His quick wit and curiosity had served him well since he was an infant, allowing him to become the youngest counselor a crown prince in the last twenty thousands years. Being the future king’s brother had helped, of course, but Loki refused to think the council had chosen him to please Odin.

Teleportation always relaxed him; it shouldn’t have. But then there were a lot of things in his life that didn’t make sense. His attraction to shorter, golden skinned men. He couldn’t begin to say why, but when brown eyes looked up at him, he felt a little more prone to magnanimity. He’d consulted oracles on the matter, but no answer had been forthcoming. None that he could decipher and be satisfied with, anyway.

A strange disturbance jerked him from his thoughts. Focusing on his body stretched between dimensions, not quite on Yggdrasil’s roots, and not quite in the vast beyond surrounding it, he parsed the mist between time and space for clues… As a sorcerer and an intellectual, he had no choice but to investigate, if only because the new sensation felt too unsettling, too… important, for him to ignore it.

After what seemed like a century of frustrating prodding in the dark, literal as well as metaphysical, he pinpointed the original of the disturbance to the flat land close to the capital city. To the castle, to his family. He accelerated towards his destination with a feral snarl, already gathering his strength to unleash the deadliest of spells.

He expected many scenarios when he landed on the grass of his home world at last, but certainly not a Midgardian.

This man, this… pitiful creature, obviously thirsty, hungry and tired, couldn’t possibly be a threat. And yet it had caused a disturbance the likes of which Loki hadn’t seen in decades, possibly centuries. He walked faster now, covering the rest of the distance between them with as much curiosity as impatience.

The Midgardian was small, but well-built. Loki couldn’t begin to guess at his age, but all things being equal, that one was probably older than him. He didn’t appear to be dangerous at all, or ill-intentioned. If anything, he seemed… confused.

Confident that the Allspeak would work, in spite of not having conversed with Midgardians before, Loki drew himself to his full height. A flash of fear crossed the mortal’s eye. Good: Loki hated to start a discussion by having to prove his superiority.  “What is a Midgardian doing on Asgard?”

“I’m not sure.” Confusion rolled off the man in waves. It was tangible, and yet not half as potent as the curiosity now shining brightly in those eyes. Brown eyes that seemed haunted, but considering the man’s next words, he doubted he remembered any of it.

“Do you know who I am?”

Loki snorted; how preposterous. “Even if I knew, I couldn’t care less, stranger.”

He saw how the mortal’s breath caught, saw the storm of emotions he experienced, amusement and fear and anger. The man’s right hand started to move, to reach out to him, and Loki allowed himself to feel surprise at that one’s recklessness. He followed the movement with his eyes, studying, deciphering…

And then fear was back in the mortal’s eyes, fear _of_ him, and Loki’s hand shot out of its own to grab a muscled arm. Did he know the man? Should he know him? The question he’d asked, _Do you know who I am_ , had sounded genuine, and he would be able to tell, being the god of lies.

Yes, his intuition whispered to him. He should know the mortal, and yet he didn’t. Couldn’t explain why, and it drove him mad, just a little.

“Stranger?” he whispered, squeezing the man’s arm just so.

Magic traveled down his arm, seeped through the man’s skin. Sleep, it crooned, feeding on living alertness, and doubts. Loki held the mortal for a heartbeat as the other fell into a deep sleep. Inexplicably giddy, he listened to the fragile heart slowing down, tried to hear what couldn’t be heard, understand what felt out of reach, even for the most powerful sorcerer in Asgard.

But who _was_ this mortal who’d disturbed space and time, and now intrigued him?

With the tip of a finger, he traced the knobs of his spine, marveling at this creature’s vulnerability. This one would be so, so very easy to kill. Midgardians were weak, barely more than animals. Ephemeral, condemned to short, meaningless lives. A pressure a touch too strong would be enough to snap this man's neck like a twig. What were forty, fifty years of live compared to a few thousands? Last he checked, humans didn't live much longer. A mere grain of sand now trapped in his own hourglass, for him to study, and nudge in either direction. 

Still pondering about his next move, Loki cradled the man to his chest and teleported them both to his chambers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whose perspective should we get next: Loki's or Tony's? Stay tuned :)


	3. Reflections of Dreams Long Gone (Tony)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That scene with the straight razor was a pleasure to write. I can picture it VIVIDLY.  
> Enjoy!

_The force of the explosion shoved him against a wall. His right shoulder was on fire, and there was something wrong with his jaw. Dismissing the quiet pleas to surrender, Tony jumped back to his feet, repulsors at the ready. The suit had already sustained significant damage and was bound to fail completely within minutes, as well as the fragile body trapped within, but Tony Stark was not a coward, not in a fight anyway._

_“Get the hell out of here!” he snarled at the red-hair standing not three feet away, gun at the ready. Black dots kept swelling against the ominous grey of the sky through the broken window, blotting out the sun, and all hope for humankind._

_“Pep, I told you to get out-”_

_“And let you die alone?” she shouted back just as pissed. “Not while I still stand, Tony Stark.”_

_She looked stunning, embracing her anger so readily. Like steel sculpted into flesh, unshakable in the face of evil. She was so courageous, so caring, so kind. He had a split second to wonder why he’d wasted his one chance at love, and then the air filled with laser beams and alien bullets, and he fired back, wheezing, stumbling, trying to stand between Pepper and the threat…_

* * *

"Pepper!"

He woke up with a scream on his lips, a silken cocoon woven tight around him. Pepper. Beneath his eyelids, he spied something bright from the already fading dream, a red and golden firework that left an acrid taste in his mouth. Pepper. P-E-P-P-E-R. For the life of him, he couldn't work out why a common spice provoked such a strong reaction from him. Red and gold, fire and light... Swearing, he freed himself from the silken sheets and formed a fist over his frantic heart, staring down at his naked torso. The soft linen pants he wore were drenched in sweat, but he didn't feel like getting naked just yet. That nightmare... Of course, the more he racked his brain for some significance, the more the vivid pictures eluded him.

Spices, a strange yet familiar color palette...

Lightning.

Pain.

Damn, but his chest ached. He rubbed the painful spot with renewed strength, trying to make sense of something that never did. Dreams meant nothing. He'd been tired (that walk in the forest had really worn him out, especially on an empty stomach), and his mind had deemed it appropriate to put give those golden and red butterflies from the meadow a starring role in his sleep. He was out of the woods now, in a large and comfortable bed, and...

His brain came back online at last. In quick succession, he kicked the sheets, scrambled to his feet, and took in every detail of the room for some clue as to where he was, and for what purpose.

The 'where' part was easy to work out: an opulent bedroom with a queen-sized bed covered in dark sheets, matching dark furniture comprising a nightstand, a chest of drawers, two chairs and a small writing table complete with a pile of blank parchment, two bottles of ink and a quill. He blinked a couple of times, making his way around the room, touching, adjusting. For some reason he couldn't quite wrap his mind around, he'd expected something... else. The parchment and the ink especially intrigued him. How... He searched for a word. Peculiar? Ancient? A headache bloomed as his hand reached for the quill, and he let it go with a sense of relief. Wherever that room was, it didn't interest him as much as the why.

He looked down at himself. At the strange device in his chest. Tanned skin. He had definitely spent a great deal of time outside recently... unless his parentage explained his complexion.

When he raised his head next, there was a six-feet-tall mirror showing him a puzzled face.

"Wh..." Not quite sure how the word should have ended, he stepped closer to the mirror, brushing a finger over its richly decorated frame. He stared into his own face, saw the goatee, the shadow of stubble, the small and not-so-small scars around his eyes. Frowning, he pressed a thumb to a larger pink scar crossing his throat. It didn't hurt, and yet his eyes bulged out in wonder. Had someone actually tried to _behead_ him? The thought might have remained at the front of his mind if his eyes hadn’t continued their slow descent down a muscled, well-toned body. Should it bother him that he couldn't remember how he'd grown into this skin? Perhaps it should. Brown met brown, both set of eyes filled with interrogation.

He leaned into the mirror and felt the cool glass against the tip of his nose. Into those brown eyes unable to look away, he spied a hint of sorrow. A haunting that shot right through his chest, squeezed around his middle like a giant fist, twisting, threatening...

He stumbled back, horror and annoyance warring inside him. Did he really have to focus on the past so much? In the future lay so many more possibilities. As for the present... He was part of the here and now, even devoid of memories. His own self mattered little in the grand scheme of things, he thought, raking a hand into his sleep-mussed hair. That thought, right there, felt slightly alien, other, but his mind didn't fight it. With this reasoning came a reassurance of sort that kept that briefly-seen sorrow at bay.

He arranged his hair as best he could. The matter of his hairstyle settled, he winked at the mirror, before getting back to exploring the room. The door, unsurprisingly, was locked.

The man who’d approached him yesterday… He’d struck him as important. Powerful. He, on the other hand, was powerless. Nameless. Was he that handsome stranger’s prisoner? He’d been referred to as ‘Midgardian’. Was that an insult, or a simple observation? Would he get food eventually? Could he knock the door down if he worked at it long enough?

He discovered two interesting things while searching the room.

First, there was another, smaller door partly blending in with the wall. It led to a luxurious bathroom: there was a large bath carved into the marble floor, another giant mirror over the sink, a fresco painted on the ceiling, and some basin that was probably the equivalent of a toilet. On the black and white counter, he found a straight razor. Picking it up, he tested it against the pad of his thumb. He could probably cut an atom in two with so sharp a blade.

The second thing he discovered was that he could think about that stranger far more freely than he could think about anything else. As if his subconscious urged him once more to let the past behind, and focus on the present, i.e. the handsome stranger who exuded raw power and presently had him locked up in his quarters.

At least he felt well rested. And those pants were very comfortable. He pressed the blade against his cheek and, with his eyes on his reflection, slowly brought it to the edge of his mouth. Sharp really was the word for it.

Unfortunately, sharp things had a tendency to cut, and that was how his host found him, swearing at the instrument, glaring at the red smudge on his chin.

What was he supposed to say, ‘hi’?

The tall man sorted that out for him.

“You Midgardians are so terribly fragile.”

And just like that, he walked to him, caught the drop of blood from his chin with a finger and brought the digit to his lips, tongue darting out to lick.

Stunned, he stared back at his host. The purple sky had been weird, sure, but that guy was certainly weirder, and not only because he seemed to have a fondness for blood. He could just tell, like he could tell a great many things without being able to explain his reasoning.

“Allow me,” the green-eyed man said regally, holding out his hand.” Since it didn’t sound like a suggestion, he did what he was asked and proceeded to become a statue as the green-eyed man turned him around, so that they both faced the mirror.

There really was a hypnotic quality to that man’s eyes, he thought, eyelids fluttering. The dots connected fairly quickly.

“Did you make me fall asleep yesterday?”

“I did.” And that man had the galls to appear totally undisturbed by his own admission. “As a matter of fact, I can do a great many things to you, mortal.”

Mortal? There was more than one thing about that statement worth examining, but abruptly one alabaster hand grabbed his left shoulder, while the other lifted the razor to his face.

“Are you-” His voice was hoarse. He tried to pry himself free, but the green-eyed man’s grip was diamond hard. There was also the blade to consider, so close to his face he could feel the cool taunt of pain.

“Lift your chin.”

He lifted his chin. With an approving hum, his host picked up where’d he’d left.

“So fragile,” he said again, shaking his head, and yet the razor followed its due course without a bump, cutting hair and caressing skin like it was supposed to. He really had a formidable control over his own body, to dare look elsewhere during so sensitive an operation. It was much more probably, however, that his host didn’t care much for his life.

The pain in his chest had faded some, but that firm presence at his back infused his whole body with cold, an uncomfortable yet familiar sensation that seemed to originate from within his own body. His head, actually.

“Will you give me a name today?” His host almost sounded bored.

He hesitated, wondering if his answer would get the man with the blade angry. Ideally, he didn’t wish this situation to go from wrong to worse. “Uh… No? I mean-”

“Where do you come from, on Midgard?” The blade glided on, cutting into the rough hair of his beard like if it was butter. “I’ve visited a long time ago. It probably has changed significantly.”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell.”

“I see. What do you know of Asgard?”

“Asgard?” He looked into the gold-specked green eyes in the mirror, but they gave nothing away. “That’s where we are, I think. It’s… interesting,” he offered.

“Interesting?”

“The sky. It’s purple.”

He inhaled sharply at the sensation of lips ghosting over his neck. Was he being tested? T _as_ ted? He gulped, tensing as the blade moved over his mouth, a mere inch separating the tender flesh of his lips from the unforgiving metal. The razor began its slow ascent on his other cheek. For a while, silence reigned unchallenged.

“You’re afraid of me.”

He didn’t know what good either ‘yes’ or ‘no’ would do, so he stayed quiet.

“Wise of you.” The man moved the blade under the faucet, cleaning it, before resuming his work. A single drop of water trailed down his cheek like a forgotten tear. His chest tightened. “It means you’re smarter than you look.”

“I-” With a shudder, he found himself leaning further into his host, following the pressure of the hand commanding the razor. The man worked methodically, and yet he didn’t seem in any hurry. He probably had a lot of practice, with how clean-shaved he looked. He really was handsome, of the I-might-kill-you-while-I-kiss-you variety.

His host set the razor back on the counter and whispered something in an exotic language. The next thing he knew, his face felt perfectly clean, as if all the remaining cut hair had been brushed away, and cream applied to his chin and cheek. His lips tingled.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” The other man seemed to be mocking him.

“What you just did.”

“Are you sure you haven’t imagined it?” Before he could reply, or pout, those green eyes traveled down his naked chest in the mirror. One hand followed, bound to the device glowing between his ribs. He held his breath, fighting desperately the need to shove that hand away, and deliver a few kicks for daring intrude on his privacy.

And then he laughed. Bitterly. What did it matter if that man touched every inch of his body, claimed it whole? He didn’t even remember who it belonged to.

He sensed more than saw the other frown.

“What is this contraption?”

“I have no idea,” he replied honestly. He steeled himself. “Do you mind taking your hand off it?”

“Interesting.”

He was too relieved to be obeyed to question the comment.

“Why am I here?” he asked instead.

“Because you don’t know yourself the reason for your own presence, and you… intrigue me.”

He narrowed his eyes. His host was not telling the entire truth, and _he_ was not suffering from amnesia. Damn this land of purple and dangerously handsome strangers curious about wandering souls.

He made a gesture to disengage himself, and was granted his freedom back. Splashing cold water on his face, he considered what little he knew, and everything that he wanted to know.

“Where is this place?”

“My home.”

An answer so readily given. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He was getting a headache again.

“I swear I’m totally amnesiac, and I really don’t remember my own name, but how can _you_ be sure I’m telling the truth?

Before he could blink, the man had backed him up against the counter, and one of those ivory hands was splayed over the scar at his throat, tracing the pink line so slowly it almost hurt. Goosebumps rose in the wake of that intense study in texture, cold fingers against warm, almost feverish skin.

They stood face to face. Biting back a whimper, he turned to the mirror. Damn, but he looked vulnerable with that man looming over him. That man’s strength was wrapped around him like a stamp for safe passage, a signature of sorts, a marking… or a warning.   

“You could never lie to me,” the green-eyed man crooned, and for the second time in as many days, he, the nameless guest, was reminded of sorcery, right before his headache exploded behind his temples. “Nobody can fool me, for I am the god of lies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now what is Loki thinking, I wonder?


	4. The Pet and the Vision (Loki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas, my darlings! <3

Loki had brought the mortal to the guest bedroom of his private quarters. Magicking his torn clothes away, he'd dressed him in the soft linen pants he favored for himself before tucking him into bed. The mortal was still out cold, but perspiration glistened on his forehead. Loki frowned, leaning over him. By all rights, the man shouldn't have been dreaming, not with the spell he'd been put under. 

The scent of fear, however, could not be mistaken for any other. Loki set one knee on the bed and brushed the back of his hand over the mortal's brow. His fear smelled different now that he was asleep, less... aggressive. Less sweet, too, and much less intoxicating than before, when the man had backed away from him.

The fear had been real. Fear  _of_ him. Loki didn't mind the unexpected gift of power, but in this case, it just unnerved him. If someone feared, he'd rather know why.

"Who are you, stranger?" he whispered, echoing his words from earlier.

The Midgardian's lips parted. Loki tore his gaze away from his mouth and focused on the glowing contraption in the man's broad chest. With his middle finger, he traced the smooth edges. Cool metal, but warm. Warmth, coming from deep within. Energy, he realized, his own mouth opening on a silent 'O' of shock. Sustainable energy that could last him decades. But what was its purpose, he mused, flattening his palm over the glow,  _claiming_ it. Channeling his seidr, he sought answers within the man's flesh.

A whimper of pain broke the silence. Loki's eyes flickered back to the man's face. His eyes moved fast under his eyelids. No Aesir, and certainly no mortal from Midgard, should have sensed his probing, much less so in an unconscious state.

"You will give me the answers I seek." It was both a threat, and a promise.

Loki stood back, holding the hand he'd just used to investigate. His skin prickled. Goosebumps had risen on the back of his hand and his forearm. Had his magic actually recognized the mortal?

What a curious creature indeed... A mystery the likes of which Loki could never encounter on a battlefield, or on one of Thor's missions. He gritted his teeth. He ached for the quest embodied by this mortal's visit to his realm. A realm he had sworn to protect in the shadow of its future king.

Thor would probably tell him to kill the mortal. His oaf of a brother might know next to naught about magic, and moke Loki at times for his passion and use of it, he would listen to him. If Loki told him that this Midgardian had disturbed the very nature of space and time, and almost messed with his teleportation, he might even end the stranger himself. Thor would go to great lengths to ensure the safety of his people.

Loki's hands clenched into fists. The mortal wouldn't wake until much later, and had he been conscious, he still would have been no match for a god. Loki stared hard at him. Mortals were so easy to kill. One snap of the wrist, one 'accident', and the possible threat, this enigma of fragile flesh, would be one less problem he had to worry about. He had to put his realm's safety first, and yet...

There was something about this human, about this weak, pathetic creature, that tugged at something deep within him. The touch of this Midgardian, his light body cradled against his chest earlier outside, his lifepulsing, warm and fiery red, his  _despair_ , had appealed to all of him: the deceiver, the caretaker, the warrior, the healer, the scholar… The god, in all his complexity. He was so small, so unimportant, so why Loki couldn't simply snap his neck like he would any other inferior creature's?

The man let out a choked moan and lifted a hand to his chest, gripping the device that intrigued Loki so much. What if it was a weapon, ingeniously designed by Asgard's enemies to bring Odin to his knees? But how could a human wield such a thing? Midgardians didn't have a magical bone in their bodies. They were a short-lived race, so vulnerable in their ephemerality, with their thin skin, and their heart so close to the surface, begging to be wrenched out and crushed to a useless pulp.

Loki snatched his hand away from the man's cheek. By the Norns, he hadn't even been aware of the contact! Glaring at his treacherous limb, he exited the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

*

Sleep eluded him that night. For one brief moment earlier, right after he'd made another warrior bite the dust in the training arena, he'd considered seeking a quick fuck. Many men with pleasant faces and aesthetically appealing bodies trained in the arena, and if most of them regarded same gender sex with disgust and couldn't hold an interesting conversation if their life depended on it, not all were devoid of interest.

In the end, Loki had left the training arena alone. He'd taken his time in his bathing suite, relishing the simple joy of his body's muscles relaxing in the hot water. Thinking of the one man who'd smiled at him in the arena, he'd reached for his cock. In the solitude of his chambers, he could touch himself as long and as thoroughly as he wanted. There was no one to tell him _not_ to picture the warrior's mouth on his hole, circling his rim with his tongue, eating him out until his jaw ached, no one to begrudge him the fantasy of the rough fuck that would follow. 

Perhaps he should have invited that warior over, he mused, hand speeding up on his cock. Precum trickled down his wrist. By the Norns, but he wanted a mouth on him, wanted to _demand_ the devotion that would blow his mind. He would reward the worshiper well, he always did. Would kiss them out of their mind, massage their balls with one hand while he guided his cock to their entrance, and slide in tortuously slow, before giving them the harsh treatment they secretly sought. They would beg him; they couldn't do otherwise. If it hadn't been for his impromptu visitor...

With a snarl of frustration, Loki let go of his aching cock and threw his head back, crashing both fists at his sides, splashing water in all directions. The damn mortal inhabited his mind, denying him the relief his body so obviously needed. He was that close to teleporting in the guest chamber to end the pathetic creature's life when he was reminded of all the questions still unanswered, and of the only way to attain them.

Patience was a virtue, and the god of lies could be virtuous if the fancy took him.

*

He hadn't meant to come back to check on his new pet so soon, but the alarms in his quarters had alerted him to a change, and curiosity had won over the boredom of paperwork. With a sigh (and a flutter of excitation he'd squashed mercilessly), he'd teleported to the man's current location.

The mortal was in the bathroom, shaving with the straight razor provided to all male guests of the royal family. Loki studied him for a moment, clad in an invisibility spell.

The man was small, yes. Appealingly muscular yet lean. The linen pants molded his thick thighs to perfection, and his narrow hips and flat belly were on display. Scars marred the tanned skin of his chest, arms and shoulders. The metallic contraption, which purpose Loki still ignored, glowed brightly, but it shed no light on the identity of the mortal carrying it.

Loki cocked his head to the side.  _Who_ was this Midgardian, and how his mere presence could create a disturbance that shouldn't have existed? Loki's eyes followed the man's hand as the blade cut through coarse dark hair. The only sounds in the room were the man's breathing, and the blade cutting. Loki raked a nervous hand through his hair. He shouldn't be nervous. He was a god, who in his magnanimity had offered sanctuary to a lost mortal.

Said mortal hissed in pain. Red bloomed on his chin from a clumsy cut. Wiping every last trace of doubt and anger from his face, Loki whispered a single word in the tongue of magic his mother had taught him.

“You Midgardians are so terribly fragile,” he crooned, smiling at the shocked expression of his guest.

Before the man could find back the use of his tongue, Loki closed the distance between them and brushed a thumb over the small wound, gathering a droplet of blood. Frustrated by the enigma a mere mortal presented to him, he indulged in a childish whim and tried to trouble him in turn, licking at the blood.

It worked very well.

“Allow me,” he demanded.

Razor in hand, he positioned the man towards the mirror and stood behind him. The puzzlement he felt but hid was mirrored in the mortal’s eyes, and very obvious for Loki, who watched every minute shift in his expression to analyze it later. 

“Did you make me fall asleep yesterday?” the man asked in a flash of understanding.

“I did. As a matter of fact, I can do a great many things to you, mortal.” On those ominous words, a warning to the one who claimed ignorance, he took hold of his shoulder and brought the blade to his face.

The mortal flinched, but Loki was no match for him.

“Lift your chin.”

By the Norns, but the sight of that mortal with his throat bared for him, his eyes wide with fear and questions that matched his own, flooded him with interest… and the barest hint of possessiveness, red-hot, and so much at odds with his usual indifference towards strangers.

Except that this stranger wasn’t quite as unfamiliar as he should have been, was he? Hearing the man gasp with his back to Loki's chest, so vulnerable at the edge of his blade _running across his throat_ , the god hummed in satisfaction. He controlled this mystery, not the other way around. And what he didn’t understand, he broke down into pieces and studied until he’d mastered its most basic functions, before putting all the parts back together, to form a better whole.

To say that if he’d stayed longer with Thor’s company of warriors, he could have missed this.

“So fragile.” The razor cut through the dark hair, giving way to smooth, tanned skin. “Will you give me a name today?”

He could sense his pet’s hesitation, and cut short his pitiful attempt at answering.

“Where do you come from, on Midgard?” he inquired conversationally. “I’ve visited a long time ago. It probably has changed significantly.”

The mortal, of course, didn’t know.

“I see. What do you know of Asgard?”

Listening to his pet struggling, realizing that the memory loss was genuine, he pressed his lips, oh so lightly, to his neck. He was still shaving the mortal, sure in his every gesture, but he was tasting him too, unable to stop himself, and too caught up in his live mystery to question his most recent decision.

The mortal tasted of fear, but also of desire, and Loki could sense the yearning take root in his own skin, heating his blood. Perhaps the replacement he’d meant to find wouldn’t be such a challenge…

Mentally slapping himself, Loki suppressed a shiver. This mortal, his new pet, might be the enemy. The fear existed for a reason, and Loki would solve this mystery before he allowed himself the luxury of finding a new lover.

Besides, mortals were so breakable.

“You’re afraid of me.” No reply. Loki inhaled his scent, tasted the bouquet of fear, and swallowed hard. “Wise of you.”

He cleaned the man’s face with his magic, and amused himself with his reaction. So predictable, as was his pet’s unease at having a hand that wasn’t his own over the contraption embedded in his chest. Of course the man couldn’t explain it. Loki fought the urge to throttle him to get answers; whatever ailed this mortal, more fear wouldn’t bring the truth to the surface.

Loki wished he knew what would.

*

His mother the Queen always took great pleasure in visiting the gardens. If Loki couldn’t find her in the throne room or her quarters, he always stopped by the lush microsystem created by Frigga and Iðunn in a moment of girlish enthusiasm centuries ago. The arrangement of native and exotic plants and the insects that called it their home delighted residents and visitors alike.

Loki, too, found the colorful labyrinth relaxing. Any other day, he would have meandered its paths and let his senses loose, listening to the humming of his seiðr.

Not today.

“Mother.”

With the smile Loki was secretly proud to call his own, Frigga turned away from the well that allowed her to study the rest of Yggdrasil. She was a powerful seeress, his mother, so gifted, actually, that the Norns had put her under a powerful spell that let her no memory of her visions, and allowed her to speak of them, at the very moment she connected with the basic rules of the universe, in riddles. It was rumored that the consequences of her remembering what she spied in the mist of lost time could cause the destruction of the nine realms. Even Odin couldn’t object against the Norns’ decision.

“Loki.”

The god closed his eyes in relief as she caught his chin and caressed his cheek. He loved his mother, and she loved him in turn, which was why he’d come to her with his current predicament. He was going to tell her about his new pet, and the doubts that plagued him, when she spoke up.

Her voice was cold. It was neither the Queen nor his mother who spoke, but the seeress blessed by the Norns.

“He comes from so far away,” she whispered, looking right through Loki.

A red and golden butterfly appeared out of the void and landed on her shoulder. Another hovered close by, singing softly. Lethally poisonous to all, but strangely loyal to those they chose, those sublime creatures were attracted to magic.

A third butterfly disappeared in the golden curls of Frigga’s hair.

Loki’s throat was dry for more than one reason. “Who is he?”

“The one who shall help,” the seeress rasped. “The one who absolves you of your crimes.”

The god bit down his tongue not to laugh. His mother’s visions were never a laughing matter, but this mortal, this vulnerable creature, more than a pawn in his own schemes for purpose and glory? The idea was ludicrous… and yet this man without a name or a past _would_ change his life. A seeress never lied.

Loki licked his lips. This man, and his presence in his life, was no accident. His fear was linked to this vision, and to Loki’s future.

To his crimes.

He shivered violently.

“Mother?”

Disappointment leaked into his voice; her mother’s eyes were back to normal, and a sad smile graced her lips. The three butterflies were gone. 

“I spoke of you,” she guessed.

“You spoke of a stranger whom I have taken under my wing.” He wanted to ask about the man, about the memories that eluded him. Wanted to know the sins he would commit, to need absolving. The fact that he could not cut deeper than he would have expected.

This evening, he had a servant send a meal to his new pet. After what he'd heard, he couldn’t bear his proximity, and the meaning it held for him, a prince of Asgard. He paced for hours, unable to be in the man’s presence, and yet unable to think of anything else but the fear in his eyes, and the heat of their bodies pressed together as he established his domination with a straight razor.

He fell asleep in his study and dreamed of snow and screams.


	5. To Be Gifted a Name (Tony)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually quite pleased with this chapter. More importantly, I'm glad I managed to finish writing it and post it tonight. I didn't feel like doing anything when I came back from work, but I thought you might enjoy an update, so here it is!

For the third morning in a row, he left his bed ill-rested, but consumed with enough curiosity to set ablaze the luxurious guest quarters. Wishing for coffee, he went about his midday’s business, grateful that his host had allowed him that much time to rest. Not that he’d rested much, or at all, really, but he was beginning to suspect that he wasn’t a morning person, amnesic in a strange land or with all his memories back in ‘Midgard’, wherever that was.

He took his time shaving. The day after the god of lies had teleported into the bathroom in his stead (he was still trying to come to terms with the reality of faster-than-light travel, when he wasn’t denying it), his hand had shaken so bad he’d cut himself twice before deciding that he was too fond of this stranger-yet-familiar’s face to butcher it further. He’d expected his host to mock him for his clumsiness on their next meeting, but the green-eyed Asgardian (whatever _that_ meant) who’d taken him into his not-so-humble abode had not made another appearance since that oddly intimate shaving session that had left him feeling a tad conflicted.

It was pondering the self-appointed god’s current whereabouts, and his own related future at his hands, that he handled the blade with exaggerated care. Following instincts that had transcended the erosion of his identity, he sculpted his facial hair into an artful goatee. Once he stared at the mirror after washing his face, he found himself fumbling for a word. He thought it started with ‘T’. Unless it was an ‘I’? Was he actually trying to remember his name?

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying hard to decide which it was, ‘T’ or ‘I’, and what string of letters followed, but his mind had gone back to a blank slate onto which all the world’s will couldn’t cast a single ripple.

“Damn it!”

In frustration, he flung the straight razor at the far wall. It thudded against the marble tile bordering the pool-sized bath before clattering to the bottom of it. Satisfied but still angry, he began pacing the bathroom.

A soft knock against the bedroom’s door jerked him out of his brooding.

“It’s open!” he called, retreating to what he’d come to think at the ‘main’ room.

“Good day, my lord.”

A shy blonde woman in what looked like a maid outfit tiptoed in the room, curtsied, and set a platter of fruits, meat, cheese and bread on the low table facing a gigantic fireplace.

“Will you require anything else?” she inquired politely, her demure gaze on tip of her shoes.

Frankly, required quite a deal of something very rare called _information_ , but he would only confuse her if he made her his sounding board. With a weary groan, he rubbed at his temples. The woman was a pretty little thing, and he could sense a primal interest brought about by her soft features and low neckline, but it was easy to ignore it.

The whole servant-mylord dance was still new to him. The first time one of those ‘maids’ had asked to come in, he’d expected a guard who would have been ordered by the god of lies to drag him to a cell to be tortured to death or rot for the rest of his anonymous life. He wasn’t a fool: he knew the god wanted answers, and his own inability to give him the most basic information must drive him up the wall. The Asgardian didn’t look like the patient type.

And yet only fragile-looking women came into his quarters bearing food, beverages and fresh clothes and linens. One had even asked to clean the room for him, but he’d refused. He knew it was ridiculous to hold on to the privacy of his filth, but really, he had but very few things and deeds to call his own.

Once the blonde woman had left, he lifted the tray and dropped on the bed with it. There was no need to pick the lock of those damned doors: he’d tried, and he felt some confidence that had the lock been anything short of incredibly good, he would have been able to leave. Were these lavish quarters supposed to be his cell, then?

Not if the interest the green-eyed man had shown up till now hadn’t cooled.

With a shiver of anticipation, he picked a string of fruits that looked like grapes but tasted like honeyed kiwis. He drank the cup of herbal tea wishing it was coffee, and munched on the nutty bread while searching his mind for his repressed self. His meal always tasted bitter when he scoured his brain for clues.

The next time someone knocked, a few hours had flown by and he’d long since abandoned any attempt at appearing in control of anything. He was curled into a ball in the middle of the bed, biting the inside of his cheek so his bloodied lips would get some rest. A fierce headache and a deeply unsettling feeling of foreboding was all he’d gotten out of the quest for his own identity.

“Go to hell,” he mumbled to the impromptu visitor.

He heard the door open, but didn’t move. The fear that seized him, and the cold blossoming at the back of his neck (the illusion of standing at a cliff’s edge, and goading himself into jumping) made it clear that this was not a maid’s errand anyway.

“While Helheim’s an interesting destination, Midgardian, I’ve had no reason to visit this realm lately.”

It took him a full minute to realize that he had zero clue as to what the god of lies was going on about, and also that he’d better show him a modicum of respect soon if his life still meant anything to him. Groaning softly, he rolled on his back and stared hard at the ceiling. He didn’t want to throw up. He wasn’t going to throw up. If kept telling himself that, it might actually work. The power of the mind over the body and all that nonsense.

The god tutted. The mere brush of a slender finger down his tanned arm had goosebumps exploding all over his body.

He turned the rest of his attention to the god. He really was tall from a horizontal perspective, and his cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut through skin, muscle and bone. His green eyes really were bewitching; the leather tunic and tight trousers of dark green he wore only served to compliment them.

They locked gazes.

“I leave you alone a day or two, and look at the mess you’ve become,” the god stated sadly. “I believe it’s due time I show you around a bit. Who knows if a little tour won’t help you recover some crucial pieces of the puzzle?”

The god made it sound like a favor, but he knew a threat when he heard one. Trying hard not to glare, and succeeding only because of the throbbing headache, he made a motion to stand. His knees buckled almost instantly.

“Let me help you.”

“I don’t need your help,” he gritted between clenched teeth.

“But you do.”

“I don’t.”

“ _You do_.”

He inhaled deeply. There was no need protesting the manhandling when he could hardly stand on his own.

“Come, mortal, you’ve rested long enough.”

The pitiful whining sound might have been his.

*

He’d never been to a royal palace before… Well, if he had, he couldn’t remember, so he might as well enjoy the tour, thank you very much. So he watched everything and everyone, and listened raptly to his guide’s explanations, drinking in his every word to try and waken his parched memory. He had his doubts about the godly nature of the sly man acting as his tour guide, but a little voice at the back of his mind kept nagging him about the teleportation business. At least, the headache was gone.

Servants, warriors and counsellors were bustling in every corner of the gigantic palace, clad in medieval clothing and talking to each other in a language he couldn’t begin to recognize.

“We all use the Allspeak in Asgard, mortal. You would not understand _me_ if I didn’t let you access that knowledge,” his guide explained.

He huffed. “There’s no such thing as mind manipulation, sorry.”

“And what impossible claim are you going to make next, that magic doesn’t exist?”

The god chuckled at his reaction. After that, they walked silently for a while. The looks thrown his way proved hard to ignore. Was a Midgardian’s presence in those walls really that incongruous? Or perhaps it was the fact that he might look like dead warmed over?

Unless it was his companion that attracted all that attention? No, he’d already been told that mortals never set a foot in Asgard; this sudden fame was all his fault.

And then they walked past a dwarf. A _dwarf_ , he thought in disbelief. A real dwarf who might as well have come straight out of the Lord of the Rings’ movie set. And the gleaming breastplate he was carrying made his mouth water. The talent that had been put into making it… His fingers ached to touch it. He had to twist his neck to stare further at the fucking dwarf walking past a set of high columns depicting some of those gods his host had been going on about. Not that he believed in gods just yet.

He was yanked out of his thoughts by his guide’s voice. There was a contemptuous edge to it.

“You don’t believe in gods and walk nonetheless in the company of one of the most powerful of this realm. How can a dwarf captivate you so?”

He shrugged. He _really_ wanted to get his hands on that breastplate. Such skill…

“A dwarf looks like a dwarf,” he said simply.

The god let out a snort. Somehow, it sounded dignified. “Are you saying I don’t look like a god?”

“I’m saying that this dwarf carries what looks like a formidable piece of armor made of a metal I would be very curious to put my hands on. Also, you never actually backed your claims of a godly nature, _my god_.”

For one moment, he thought he was going to die a horrible death in that golden hall with his curiosity left unsatisfied; the god’s eyes had darkened at least a thousand shades, and lines of tension had appeared at the corner of his eyes and mouth. A torrent of emotions flickered across his face, rage and disbelief and something else, something fiercer, darker yet lighter than passion, and it felt like a vice around his own damaged chest, around his neck, even.

He had to look away.

“We shall address your naïve assessment of reality another day,” the god said at last, his voice ice cold, the hint of challenge barely contained. “For now, tell me more about this fascination of yours for metal and armors.”

“I don’t-” he started to protest. “I told you I don’t remember any-”

“You remember enough,” the god cut him. “A little detour will prove enlightening for both of us at this stage, I believe.”

*

Two hours later, elbows deep into metal parts at the invitation of a company of perplexed dwarves and a smug god, he couldn’t deny anymore his fascination for armors, metal, and making things with his own hand. The hammer had felt good in his hand, and so had all those shiny plates he’d been allowed to alter. He’d made a rudimentary helmet, and it might not be great work, but it was good work, and it felt right to sweat and use muscles that retained some memory.

His mind was running wild, and his hands were everywhere. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the contraption in his chest was linked to his skills as a blacksmith. He might have said something, mindful to stay on the god’s good side, if he hadn’t been so terribly entranced by this Alibaba cave, this realm of unforeseen possibilities, this… this workshop.

The word ‘workshop’ had struck a chord in him, the same one that ‘pepper’ had. He’d shelved the thought for later contemplation, more interested in the _unknown metal_ making up those silvery plates on the working table in front of him.

And the fact that the god of lies was apparently a prince, too.

The dwarves had called him ‘Prince Loki’. The name didn’t ring a bell, but the sensation of cold and fear that he’d come to associate with the god had returned, and every time the name was said aloud, new shivers ran up his spine, distracting him.

Loki was dangerous. No, scratch that: he was lethal, and his undisguised interested in his visitor made him, a mere mortal (at least according to him), all the more vulnerable for it. By this point, not remembering his own name mattered little; he’d much rather know what or who presented a threat to him and what didn’t.

And Loki definitely did present a threat. To his life? Certainly. To his sanity? Probably. His reasons for treating a trespasser in his kingdom with kindness, as if he, too, was a god on vacation from afar, was anyone’s guess, but it unnerved him. Kindness… He didn’t think he was used to it, and while he couldn’t place the feeling, he was glad to access that tidbit of information.

“Enjoying yourself, pet?”

He grimaced.

“Absolutely. This is me enjoying myself. Not that I know who that is, but I can assure you I’m having a lot of fun, and also, I’m pretty sure exercise is good for my health. Have I thanked you for taking me in? Thank you. This place is great. Your friends are great.”

He could feel those piercing green eyes on him, surveying his every move, watching his every gesture and shift in expression, parsing his words for the lies he claimed to be the god of.

He did his best to ignore him, but it was hard, and it became harder with every minute spent in the warm furnace of the dwarves’ workshop. He knew that much about himself: he loved challenges. And those plates of silvery metal were a nice puzzle to take apart, just like the god leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. A god who’d heard the truth in his words, and led him to a place that could help him unearth some memories. Apparently, they both enjoyed to solve puzzles.

He swallowed hard, blinking at the shiny helmet in his calloused hands. Loki’s obvious lethality frightened him, yes, but it also… aroused him. For all he’d forgotten of his former life, he was under the distinct impression that he usually connected ‘dangerous’ with ‘exciting’, and the proof stood right here with a regal pose, lithe and handsome, demanding in his silence that he, the mortal, the pet, the Midgardian, _his_ own personal enigma, found the key to his own locks.

“Will you share your thoughts with me, pet?”

He spun around, glaring at his haughty guide, the god of lies. A prince. Even remembering the title, he still glared. He knew the god considered him beneath him, a mere mortal, amnesiac, small in height and prone to headaches and sudden faintness, ailments that befitted the weak. He could see the truth in those green eyes, and he didn’t need to be a god, of lies or otherwise, to know this.

But he wasn’t just some low life. His short time in the dwarves’ den had made it clear to him that he was cunning and intelligent, imaginative and resourceful. Those dwarves were proud people, or so he’d been told, and they treated him with respect once they’d seen what he could do. If he needed a tangible proof, a confirmation from a third party, that he was just not anyone, he had it right here, in the attention he basked in.

He was reckless, too, which was why he actually chided the god towering over him. And if he held on to his hand-crafted helmet with a little too much force, nobody had to know.

“Pet, mortal, Midgardian… Neither of those are adequate names, even if I can tell you’re having a great time using them. You see…” He didn’t think he could stop now, even to save his own life; he was on a roll, and there was a bunch of dwarves in attendance. “These are not my name. Come on, even pets have name.”

The god cocked his head to the side. A fringe of black hair fell between his eyes.

“What about Jarnverr?”

His eyes were pools of life, so green, so clear. It would be so easy to let go and drown… His tongue felt heavy as he spoke.

“Jarn-what?”

“In the Aesirs’ tongue,” the god replied in a purr, “it means Iron Man. After all, the metal you find so fascinating is merely iron imbued with dwarfish magic, which presents interesting properties shall one decide to-”

Iron Man.

IRON MAN.

He could see the letters printed at the back of his eyelids, pulsating in red. Blood was splattered everywhere on the inside of his head, painted by a past and a future, a destiny, he tasted but couldn’t grasp.

It tasked like death and life on a coin, flipping and flipping and flipping until they became one and the same before and after, forever…

**IRON MAN.**

He doubled over and threw up. The pain in his skull became so intense so fast his vision whitened out and his legs gave under him. Blood rushed in his ears, drowning the rising whispers in the workshop, every other version of this reality of enigmas and ice, and green eyes, oh god, he was going to die, he… couldn’t… breathe…

“Jarn!”

He was so light, so light… He felt strong arms supporting him, heard a voice calling that name, over and over, but this wasn’t _him_ , not really. His face was pressed to a broad chest; he could smell leather, but he thought of pepper, and tasted blood.

“Sleep, now.”

A wave of peacefulness washed over him. When he passed out, it was to the calming sound of a panicked heartbeat that wasn’t his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Jarnverr** : my humble attempt at ignoring declensions in Old Norse and smashing words together. I’m proud of it - and don’t you think it sounds a bit like someone/something else’s name back home (i.e. the MCU)?


	6. Jarnverr (Loki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank all of you lovely readers (and fellow writers) for being so patient. I'm trying to finish a(nother) book and it's pretty much a constant headache, but I think the effort will be worth it. Meanwhile, please enjoy this new chapter <3

Watching Jarnverr at work both delighted and annoyed him.

It delighted him because the mortal was obviously talented in a forge; he breezed about the workshop the dwarves had more than willingly opened to him (not that Loki would have left them much choice on the matter), picking up tools and adjusting his work environment as if he'd manipulated metal all of his very, very short life. Not only was Jarnverr incredibly talented with his hands, but he had creativity and resourcefulness in spades for someone whose memory had been almost wiped clean. The fact that he could still create amazing pieces of armor hinted at a formidable talent resembling instinct, and Loki couldn’t help his fascination for the man’s imagination.

Besides, he’d never been one to deny the pursuit of one’s interests, especially if those interests didn’t lie in warfare. He’d acted as a patron before, in this realm and others.

And who knew if a somewhat familiar environment wouldn’t help the Midgardian recover more of his memories, and thus shed light on the mystery of his interrealm trip?

But Loki wouldn’t push him, not anymore. When he’d first used the name ‘Jarnverr’, he’d had to use both magic and physical strength to bring the mortal back to himself. By that point, he’d already decided that powerful magic was keeping the man’s memories locked away. How else could the disturbance he’d sensed in the fabric of space-time be explained?

As soon as he’d relocated with the unconscious Midgardian to his rooms and laid him on his own bed, he’d entered what he thought of as a ‘weaker’ mind and scoured it for the barriers he was sure to find. The wall he’d discovered instead was thicker than expected, and completely impenetrable. The magical strength necessary to create it would have awed him had he not been so frustrated. He’d slapped the mortal awake with an iota of his usual strength and tried to bring that infuriating wall down by using key words.

‘Jarnverr’ hadn’t got any reaction from the mortal beside puzzlement. ‘Iron Man’, however… Loki had stopped when his eyes had rolled back in theirs orbits and blood oozed from his nostrils and ears. He’d coaxed Jarnverr back to sleep with a gentle touch of his seiðr and transported him to his guest quarters.

Loki was jerked out of his thoughts by a warm laugher. His right hand twitched at his side as he took in the delighted expression on Jarnverr’s face. And the delight was directed towards him, somehow. Coincidence? Purpose?

_He comes from so far away. The one who shall help. The one who absolves you of your crimes._

What crimes would he commit, that he would need this man’s help, and absolution? Cringing inwardly, he carefully schooled his expression to show polite interest and nothing more, nothing less.

“What is it?” he asked with feign exasperation. “You think you’ve gotten better than the dwarves, now?”

“Still working on it, but I’m getting there!” was all the mortal said before returning all of his formidable attention to his current work, a silver-lined arm piece that Loki found, to his dismay, simply mouth-watering in its complexity. Beautiful, like the man who’d made it.

He plucked that thought from his mind, regarded it with fury and pictured it bursting into flames, before walking up to one of the dwarves sitting comfortably on another working table with a note pad in his lap, writing incessantly. Of course, Loki could use the Allspeak to decipher the page, but he liked _that_ dwarf well enough, and he already knew that those notes only pertained to the smithing aspects of the show Jarnverr was giving anyone who entered the workshop.

“Jarnverr,” he whispered to himself, and the dwarf was wise enough not to raise his head from his note pad. Jarnverr, not Iron Man. The Midgardian’s mind was too interesting, too entertaining, the mystery he embodied too important for Loki to risk damaging it beyond repair. He might be pushy at times, but mortals were fragile creatures, and Loki would be very, very angry if his new toy broke when he, the owner, had barely begun to study all of its facets, inwards and outwards.

He waited five minutes before approaching the mortal to look over his shoulders.

“Tell me about your work,” he said in the voice he knew caused the mortal to shiver.

Jarnverr recovered more quickly than Loki expected. There was no fear in his eyes as he showed Loki what already looked like a breastplate. He spoke with passion, and whenever a word eluded him, he asked around until he got an answer that satisfied him. Jarnverr was curious and intelligent, and arrogant, too, at times, but not so much that he would prefer to remain ignorant.

Loki bit down his lip, stepping back as the Midgardian resumed his work. Watching him was delightful for sure, but also annoying, and that annoyance was in direct proportion to his delight. 

He couldn't afford to be attracted to Jarnverr. But how could he not? The Midgardian positively glowed as he created purpose with every new metal plate that he bent to his will. The muscles in his toned arms were neatly defined in the sleeveless black tunic he was wearing, and Loki may or may not have gifted him with a small wardrobe of clothes that were more and more form-fitting over time. Charcoal was smeared on his cheeks and arms, his eyes were underlined by sleep deprivation, and yet they shone brightly, almost maniacally. Jarnverr looked so sure of himself, and determined; he was nothing like the lost, amnesic, fragile man Loki had found outside, half-starved to death. His talent and assurance, that warm smile Loki found more and more directed his way, caused his blood to boil.

All in all, Jarnverr was slowly driving him mad, and they’d barely known each other for weeks.

Or perhaps they hadn’t? No, Loki would remember his face, would remember his voice, his body and his wits. And yet no matter how much he tried to ignore the strange sensation of familiarity that kept him awake at night, it would return when Jarnverr looked at him with either anger or annoyance, or when Loki touched him too fast, and fear filled the air between them.

Loki shuddered. In ten minutes, he was to attend a Council meeting with his parents and the usual witless lackeys whose use he severely doubted.

Ten minutes. If he hurried a little, he could afford a shower before he joined the Council.

A cold one.

“I trust you will continue to behave, Jarnverr,” he said as a way of parting.

The mortal didn’t look up from his work, but Loki saw his lips twitch in a not quite suppressed smile. Well, at least one of them was in a good mood today.

“Will you come by later today?”

“If the dwarves complain.” The only dwarf present was busy being _amazed_ by Jarnverr, so the probabilities weren’t very high. “Or if I’m bored. After all, you’re my guest, and guests should be entertaining.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t expect you to give me access to this amazing place for free.”

“And yet you aren’t building this… suit of armor for me.”

“Do you need one?”

“I already have plenty.”

“May I remind you, Loki, that I am the only mortal here?”

“Then you acknowledge that I _am_ a god?”

He arched an eyebrow, and Jarnverr rolled his eyes. Loki would have to tell him not to do that in public, or questions would be asked. The fact that he didn’t really mind such boldness annoyed him more than the eye-rolling itself.

Damn mortal.

“A god?” Jarnverr asked aloud, frowning as he studied a part of his breastplate more intensely. “Maybe, probably. What I know is that I’ve seen a couple of you fight the other day and you’re all _way_ stronger than me. So. I thought I would even the scales a bit, in case someone takes a fancy to, say, punch my face out of my skull or something like that.”

There were just not that many people with whom Loki enjoyed bantering, and this mortal he didn’t even know if he should know better was one of them. Desire pooled in his belly.

“A reasonable project, in your case. But there’s no need: you’re my guest.”

“Am I under your protection, then?” Jarnverr appeared amused at the concept.

Loki’s smile was all teeth. “As long as you behave.”

“Might as well build the rest of that suit, then. I think…” The mortal got a faraway look in his eyes. “I think I tend to insult people on a regular basis, sometimes without meaning to.” He shot Loki a pointed look. “Others might not be as tolerant as you are.”

Loki was surprised, and pleased, by the mortal’s understanding of his own situation. By his understanding of him.

“You are quite right about that," he said a little breathlessly. "Now I must go. _Behave_.”

“Only for you, Loki.” the other replied cheekily.

Loki’s eyes flashed. By the Norns, this mortal’s tongue was dangerous. He balled the hand that had been reaching for Jarnverr’s shoulder and turned on his heels.

*

His cock was already half-hard by the time he entered the bathing area and soaped his way between his thighs. Leaning into the shower stall, he conjured a picture of Jarnverr in his work clothes, wet hair clinging to his brow, muscled arms glistening with sweat as he handled the hammer. _His_ mortal, he thought, both angry and aroused as he wrapped his fingers around the base of his cock and pulled none too gently. The urge to possess the Midgardian, to claim him, and make it clear to everyone that Jarnverr belonged to him and no one else, was so strong he almost teleported to the forge without a stitch on, conventions be damned. There, he could press the Midgardian against his worktable and kiss him within an inch of his life, tear his pants to shreds and finger him open, tease him with such precision, such passion that the man would spread his ass cheeks without being prompted, begging for Loki’s cock, for every one of Loki’s touches.

His groin burnt. The mortal desired him too, at least a little. Loki knew it to be true; his pupils would darken when Loki looked at him _just_ so, his breath would catch when Loki spoke to him in that sultry, dark tone of voice he usually reserved for lovers whose skills he particularly enjoyed. But did he desire him enough to ignore his fear whenever they touched for too long?

Would he kneel for him, and ask for Loki to spill his seed all over his face because he wanted to wear his god's scent?

Would begging appeal to him in a sexual context?

Precum leaked continuously down his wrist now. Throat closing, feverish, he thumbed repeatedly at the slit while he reached for his balls with his other hand to pinch the sensitive skin. He was too close, too fast, but oh, how he would enjoy to watch his cum drip down the man’s goatee, glisten on his lips… Unless he spent himself down his throat, deep and unexpectedly?

His hand took on a rougher rhythm, and he threw his head back panting. He wanted it, and he could never indulge himself in that fashion, but he could still think about coming down Jarnverr’s throat, could still picture the mortal humming around his cock as he masturbated, fucking into his own fist while he mouthed at the god’s erection with gusto…

… wrapping Loki around his little finger, he who didn’t remember his own name but wreaked havoc with space and time…

Loki let go of his erection and spun around, slamming one fist against the marble tile. Cracks appeared into the wall and spread further in every direction as he hit it a second time, eyes screwed close, breathing ragged.

When was the last time a woman or a man had bewitched him so that he couldn’t stop thinking about them, couldn’t do anything else but want them with every last cell of his being?

He couldn’t remember, and it frightened him. Even the steady lover he’d had that Thor had sent to his death hadn’t drilled such an ache in his chest. He was in too deep already.

He was compromised.

The laugh that tumbled from his lips was all pain.

*

The newcomer was a major subject of conversation, Loki discovered at the end of the Council meeting.

Three hours he’d spent sitting at the large table with Odin, Frigga, Thor and various counsellors, three hours he’d been bored out of his mind. At last, his father put an end to today’s meeting, and the counsellors rose talking in low tones to each other.

More than half the conversations had to do with Jarnverr.

Odin directed him a pointed look, and Loki suppressed a sigh. He’d waited long enough, he supposed.

Thor, however, was faster.

“I thought Midgardians were not allowed to come here?”

Odin was looking at Loki, and Loki alone. Frigga excused herself and left the room to resume the negotiations with a Vanir diplomate who’d just returned to Asgard.

“Midgardians without supervision,” Odin amended. “There had been rare occurrences when some among us had taken an… ah, interest, in an individual.”

“You’ve been traveling, brother?”

Loki’s head spun; he had to choose his next words carefully, and remain true to his name, even if he was loath to lie to both his father and brother.

“I’ve been… studying him, since our first meeting.”

It was the truth. Now, to the problematic part.

“What do we know about their current level of knowledge, and technology? We haven’t visited Midgard for a very long time, as far as I know. The suit of armor I’ve ordered Jarnverr to build for me should give us a hint.”

Not quite a lie yet.

“You let him make weaponry? With dwarfish metal?” Thor asked, clearly taken aback, while Odin’s eyes widened slightly.

Loki covered the cracks in his mask as soon as they appeared.

“Don’t look so alarmed, brother. It is merely a trick to test his abilities.”

“What if he isn’t representative of his race?”

Loki already suspected that he wasn’t. He wanted to tell Thor that Jarnverr was probably more brilliant than most, about his amnesia and the disturbance he’d felt when he’d returned home, but then the Midgardian would have to be put down, and Loki couldn’t allow that. If Thor had returned earlier like he’d been supposed to instead of going for another battle, this meeting might very well have ended with Loki admitting to everything and Thor or Odin demanding Jarnverr’s execution.

And Loki would have killed the mortal, and would never know the extent of his regret.

_So far away. Help. Absolve._

Was he being egoistic in withholding part of the truth, or reasonable? One simply didn’t disregard a prophecy made by the most powerful seerest of Asgard.

“There’s a prophecy…”

The truth, only the truth, even if he left out the end. His mother didn’t remember a word of it; he was the only one to hold this future, _his_ future, in the palm of his hand.

His chest tightened. Still, he forced himself to stay seated and answer all his brother’s and father’ questions to their satisfactions. Keeping Jarnverr alive was paramount.

Keeping him close, a fixation he was aware of, but unable to dismiss.

*

He found Jarnverr asleep at his work station. The man sat on his favorite high stool and was bent over the metal plates he’d worked on all day, his right cheek hardly cushioned by the rounded part of the breastplate, which his arms encircled protectively.

The darkness put Loki at ease, and he allowed himself the barest of smiles. He didn’t have to keep his mask on here, where no one could see him.

He was still compromised, though. If there hadn’t been the prophecy, he would have been panicking, not merely worrying.

“Overexerting yourself again?” he asked softly. “Did you try to remember today, too? Stubborn mortal.”

He’d better get him to his quarters, or else he would be sore on the next day. Midgardians tended to get joint and muscle pain so easily.

Loki wound an arm around Jarnverr’s shoulders and meant to lift him from the stool when suddenly, the mortal threw his head back in a violent arch and hit him in the jaw.


	7. Green Eyes (Tony)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven’t seen IW yet (tomorrow evening it is!), but I suspect it won’t end well for my favorite characters, so don’t worry about spoilers, as I plan to ignore whatever happens.  
> -denial on-

That night in the workshop, he dreamt of the end of the world.

He’d been working on a breastplate, not sure why but willing to indulge his instincts. The lack of sleep was starting to take his toll on his very mortal body, and he should have gone to bed hours ago, but the serenity he experienced doing manual labor (his very own brand of magic, thank you very much) had won over mere reason.

It was no wonder that his body protested and went limp.

Then he smelled blood.

It was the end of the world.

*

 _Tony Stark had always felt at home with fire and chaos. It was in the midst of the first and wielding the second that he’d brought his best creations to life._ For _life. He wanted to make sure Earth had a chance against Thanos. His friends would have the best armors outfitted with the state-of-the art weapons. Thor might claim that the Mad Titan was unkillable, Tony had yet to face a challenge he couldn’t overcome. It was in his nature to protect. He was no hero, but he was humanity’s best chance to withstand the army_ en route  _to Earth._

_Tony Stark was at home with fire and chaos, but those tools weren’t only meant to help and protect. Too often, in the wrong hands, they were agents of death, and today was one of those days._

_The first wave of Chitauri came all too soon._

_“Careful, Tones!”_

_“I’m doing my fucking best here!”_

_The knife-like appendage at the end of the alien’s arm grazed the top of his shoulder. Tony swore loudly. Under normal circumstances, no part of him would be exposed to any kind of alien crap. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have had to give away a part of his suit to Rhodey, who’d given all of_ his  _to Pepper, who’d turned over_ hers  _to a pregnant Natasha, because Widow had stepped out of hers and arranged for it to explode, thus killing one of the controlling minds of the enemy fleet, and Clint was too far away and throwing a fit and Fury-_

_Of course, under normal circumstances, Tony wouldn’t really fear for his life. But Doomsday had come early this year, and all the Avengers and able-bodied human beings fought teeth and claws against the aliens, taking down as many of them as they could._

_Tony thought about his chances of survival as he blasted the damned Chitauri into oblivion. Today? Good enough. Next week, when Thanos himself arrived with his_ best  _warriors? Not so good. And neither were Pepper’s, and everyone else’s he cared about…_

_Talking about Pepper…_

_“Pep, watch out!”_

_“TONES,_ YOU  _WATCH OUT!”_

_Tony ducked under an overpass half a second before a building collapsed. He didn’t even have the time to catch his breath as three Chitauris cornered him and tried to take out the other parts of his armor. He kicked one sideways just in time for the blade in another’s ‘hand’ to miss his heart. His freaking heart! Many people accused him of lacking one, or pretending stone could beat and pump blood, but really, Tony knew what love was. Love and fear, compassion and the maddening worry that gripped him in the sight of fire and chaos that wasn’t his…_

_Rhodey was dead-_

_… sky was dark, full of flames, but the heat didn’t reach him-_

_… he screamed as the blade nicked his throat-_

_… green eyes flashed-_

_… mercy wasn’t a thing, and neither was hope, or-_

_… his throat burnt-_

_… “by my hand only, Stark”-_

_… hate…_

_…pain, so much pain, and darkness taking over the world he’d failed to protect-_

_… “Stark!”-_

_… he couldn’t breathe-_

_… couldn’t… breathe-_

_… Loki, he’d-_

_… Lo…ki-_

_“LOKI!”_

_*_

He was being lifted off the ground, readied for the slaughter. He reacted on instinct and threw his head back even as he balled his hands into fists.

His enemy grunted in pain. He didn’t know who he was fighting, but he knew his life was at stake. If necessary, he would kill the other.

He’d killed before, a little voice told him. He could do it again.

It might not be easy, though; the next thing he knew, he was thrown on a high table. The metal of  _something_ dug into his back. He rolled on to his side, narrowly avoiding the open hand coming at him (why not a fist?) and dropped to the floor on the other side of the table.

Enemy, his brain screamed. ENEMY!

Fully aware that his opponent must be strong indeed to throw him with his bare hands, he rushed him.

It was his own back that hit the wall. The hand pinning him to the wall pressed harder. And harder. How could a man wield such strength? He struggled as his enemy trapped his legs between his.

“That’s enough, Jarnverr. You’re having a nightmare.”

The words didn’t make a lick of sense, and the eyes he could feel searching his face in the darkness unnerved him. He wanted to fight. Wanted blood to flow. He was… He was fire and chaos, and this man, this being, his  _enemy_ , was something to destroy.

“Jarnverr, look at me.”

He did look, but he also managed to free one foot and kick at a tibia.

The other’s grip loosened, and he landed a punch in his chest. With a snarl, his enemy bellowed that name again, ‘Jarnverr’, just before kicking him in the chest.

It hurt. He was lifted off his feet for the second time tonight and landed hard on his ass. As he eyed the man closing on him, he started to doubt he could win that fight.

So he stood. And he ran. He might be fast, but the other was faster, and the chase lasted all of five seconds before he was sprawled on the floor with the god straddling him (a god, really?), a steel grip on one of his wrists.

God.

Green eyes that he thought he saw in the darkness.

His mind spun.

“Jarnverr,  _heel_!”

He froze for the span of a heartbeat. Jarnverr. Yes, that was his name. Jarn-veer.

His conscious mind wondered at that, but his body and subconscious returned to the fight. By the time Jarnverr connected all three parts together, the strain on his wrist was almost unbearable.  

The bones snapped suddenly, and Jarnverr screamed.

“Lights!”

Loki’s face appeared out of the darkness. Right. Loki. The god Loki, prince of this realm. And he... he was a mortal, a Midgardian. Jarnverr. They were in a workshop owned by dwarves, and Jarnverr had been working on a breastplate before falling asleep. Loki had roused him.

By the time he’d processed all that, he’d stopped screaming.

Loki didn’t have any right looking as handsome as he did, angry and wild  _straddling him_ , and Jarnverr glared up at him. His wrist hurt like hell.

“Your name,” the god snapped.

“Jarnverr, but-”

“Wrong answer!”

“I don’t know!” Jarnverr lashed out, blinking back tears as he cradled his broken wrist. “And you’re a fucking god, it wasn’t necessary to-”

“Where do you come from on Midgard?”

“I DON’T KNOW!”

Loki jumped to his feet. In spite of the pain, Jarnverr did the same. How many bones were there in a wrist for it to hurt so much?

“I had a nightmare, ok?” Anger didn't lessen the pain; it was but a drop of 'good' in an ocean of 'bad'. “You didn’t need to-”

Loki drew himself to his full height, and Jarnverr couldn’t help his instinctive reaction to step back. The rictus on the god’s lips was frightening, but at least it helped distract him from the pain.

“You will address this god on another tone, Jarnverr.”

Jarnverr shivered. Now was probably not the time to remark that Loki was getting a case of dissociative personalities.

“I don’t know,” he hissed quietly. “And before you ask, I don’t know the first thing about Asgard except what you’ve shown me so far. I still have no idea what the thing in my chest is for, except that it's possibly linked to my skills as a  blacksmith and the fact that I'm alive. And I don’t-have-a-fucking-clue-why-I’m-here,” he concluded through clenched teeth. “Could you  _please_ leave so that I can fix my wrist in peace now?”

He expected Loki to refuse, or to bite his head off for  _daring_ speak to him on that sarcastic tone. What he didn’t expect was for Loki to back him into his working table and fucking kneel. The look on the god’s face, for lack of a better word, was almost regretful.

It was annoying, really, how Jarnverr both wanted to punch him and hug him.

“I am sorry I broke your wrist,” the god said quietly. “Let me fix it.”

Before Jarnverr could think of a suitable reply that wasn’t ‘then you shouldn’t have broken it in the first place, you asshole’, they were teleported into the quarters Jarnverr occupied.

“You could warn a guy,” Jarnverr snapped, rolling away on the bed.

Loki rolled him back to his other side with infuriating ease.

“I never apologize, Jarnverr, so stop sulking and let me heal your wrist.”

“Right.”

“You are one ungrateful mortal, aren’t you, pet?”

“And you an aggravating god. Oh, have I said that out loud?”

Jarnverr half-expected Loki to leave him to his misery, but then he felt the god’s hand on his wrist. The pain receded to a dull ache. Loki’s eyes shone brighter as he worked his magic, whispering words in a sing-song voice. Jarnverr watched the god’s face, too caught up in the tense expression etched on those handsome features to remember he was supposed to pout, or protest the manhandling of his mortal person.

When Loki released his wrist, his face was blank. Carefully, Jarnverr tested his articulations. His wrist felt fine. More than fine, actually.

“Is it too much to hope you might remember your nightmare?” Loki asked neutrally.

Jarnverr sighed. “Beside a general sense of foreboding? Nothing. Well... nothing important.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am  _not_ lying.”

“Tell me, Jarnverr.”

The god’s voice had dropped an octave, and his gaze  _burnt_. To his utter dismay, Jarnverr found himself hardening. Danger, right. Reminding his body that it could be broken in two if the mood struck Loki did the trick.

“I just- I remember green eyes. ’might be yours for all I know. After all, you’re the person I see the most, and you-” He bit down his tongue hard, willing himself to stop babbling. “As I’ve said, it was nothing important.”

Loki wasn’t smiling. “It must be, if it’s the only thing you remember before you woke up and attacked me.”

“I didn’t know it was you.” Jarnverr winced. “And I don’t know you from before.”

“Then why attack me?”

“How the hell should I know? Foreboding, green eyes; that's about what I remember from this dream.” he swallowed tickly as one of Loki's knees brushed his. He didn’t think Loki would harm him again, but his heart still sped up.

“Green eyes,” the god mused aloud.

The intense look Jarnverr had spied on Loki’s face earlier returned. Suddenly, he was acutely aware of their proximity, and the fact that they were both in his bed.

He didn’t think he was the kind of man to blush, but his face still felt a little too warm as he spoke the first thing that went through his mind.

“How can I be afraid of you, and so at ease in your presence? You feel…”

“Natural, familiar, in spite of how little we know of each other?”

Loki was staring so hard at him Jarnverr started to squirm. He didn’t think he was the kind of man to squirm either, but the god just had this effect on him. He licked his lips. The god’s eyes followed the motion, sending a shiver up his spine.

“Yes, and more… real than everything else in this world. So you feel it too? The a- the connexion?”

Loki nodded, slowly. Jarnverr looked down at his wrist, and the white hand that was now covering it. The contrast was beautiful… and dangerous.

It really would be easy for Loki to kill him.

“Are you cold?” he blurted out. “You feel cold.”

“I do?” Loki cocked his head to the side, and covered one of Jarnverrs’ hands with his own. “You do feel very warm, pet.”

“I’m not a pet,” Jarnverr protested, but since he yawned at the same time, it didn’t quite convey the right message.

The god laughed and  _lay on his side._  Jarnverr tensed. Loki must have sensed his nervousness, but he didn’t move away. He actually went as far as to trail a finger down his exposed arm. The white digit raised goosebumps on the tanned skin.

He had a thousand questions at the tip of his tongue, but the nightmare had drained him. What had it been about? What were they all about? His past, of course, but why couldn’t he remember?

Why did it seem so trivial?

And who was that green-eyed person from his dreams, beside the reason he’d woken on the killing edge and attacked his only ally on Asgard?

His eyelids grew heavier. Jarnverr suspected Loki’s magic at play, and could only hope in his battered state that the god would make his sleep dreamless.

He was already half-asleep when he thought he heard Loki speak.

“For all your protests, you heel rather nicely,  _pet_.”

Jarnverr may or may not have protested in his sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing important, uh? Dear Tony, how you are mistaken...


	8. Jealousy in the Making (Loki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to all of you for your support and love!

As soon as he teleported back to Asgard, Loki sank to his knees and magicked a cup of cold water, which he emptied so fast his head spun. He was hot all over, and not merely because Muspellheim’s temperature was always way above Asgard’s average. There had been this… issue with his temperature spell again. The runes were right, he’d checked many times, but the glow of his magic was still the strange blue it had been weeks before, back when he’d accompanied his brother on his crusade to reassert Odin’s claim on those fiery lands.

He didn’t know why his magic was reacting that way, but it worried him. Even his mother’s reassurances that it was all right, merely a glitch in an otherwise perfect system, didn’t appease him. The rebel tribes on Muspellheim had finally been brought to their knees, but Loki didn’t feel any satisfaction.

What he wanted was answers, and the will to fight the unavoidable.

*

Three days later, Loki was still bothered by that little disturbance in his magic, but his recent reunion with a much bigger disturbance in his life (and for a short time, in the fabric of space and time as well) pushed back that minor concern to the back of his mind.

He’d been reluctant to leave Jarnverr alone, but his mother had promised to keep an eye on him, and more importantly, on the people who might disapprove of his presence on Asgard. Still, Loki hadn’t slept well until he’d returned to the workshop and seen for himself that the mortal was all right, and busy like he always was.

That first night after his return from Muspellheim, Loki had barely spent a handful of minutes in the man’s company before teleporting in his own quarters. The mortal had been happy enough to see him, and his passionate speech about his armor was as endearing as ever.

But days away from the mortal had made him all the more sensitive to every note of the mortal’s heady scent.

The fear, that neither of them could quite explain, but that permeated Jarnverr’s scent whenever they shared a room.

The desire, that Loki couldn’t remember being so potent. Oh, Jarnverr had tried to hide it, but his eyes had betrayed him. Loki had just stood behind the mortal and already he had smelled it on him. His nose had burnt with it, and his chest ached. Listening to Jarnverr point out different parts of the suit and explain in details what he’d built and how it would be useful had been all the motivation Loki needed to throw the man in his bed and suck every last rational thought of his through his cock.

Truly, it had taken a great deal of self-control not to lock everyone (at the moment, one dwarf and a maid) out of the forge and ravish that infuriating, fascinating, unbearably attractive mortal right there on his work table. He wanted to fuck him just right, so that Jarnverr would limp only slightly, but would remember, with every stroke of his hammer, every return trip from the fireplace to his worktable, who had taken him.

As Loki was loath to lose control over his own body, he’d sought the appropriate distraction in a more… discreet part of the realm. He’d had to maintain his illusion as a woman, because he couldn’t be bothered to wait until he found a man who shared his interests, but the rough use of his cunt, and the man’s tongue licking it clean of cum, had helped a little.

Going back twice more in as many days had helped a little more.

Of course the pleasure worker he’d chosen was small and well-built, with stunning brown chocolate eyes and hair. The hands that had spread his female legs and caressed his folds had to be calloused as a result of manual work, and the mouth that plunged deep into him had to be framed by a small mustache and a beard. The scratch of that coarse hair against his inner thighs, still very sensitive in his female form, had been enough to give him a second orgasm.  

It wasn’t the fact that the man resembled Jarnverr that disturbed him the most, even if it did annoy him; what unsettled him was the knowledge that many of the men he’d taken to bed  _before_  meeting the amnesiac, lost mortal also looked like said mortal, and while the trend might simply hint at personal preferences, Loki was almost sure that the pang of familiarity he felt whenever he laid eyes on Jarnverr meant that they’d met long before Loki had started to collect brown-haired, brown-eyed lovers... which meant that he’d chosen those men based on his liking of the mortal.

Whom he’d never met until a few weeks ago.

With whom, his guts told him, he’d shared something of importance in a past he couldn’t remember any more than Jarnverr could.

And yet Loki refused to think that  _his_ memories could have been altered. He was a sorcerer whom the Norns had bestowed with fantastic abilities, and a simple self-diagnostic would show him if someone, or something, had tempered with his mind. Everything seemed to be fine on that regard.

As for Jarnverr’s mind, it had definitely been altered, but Loki wasn’t going to try and break in again. Not when the result was so much pain and the prospect of madness and death.

In the wide hallway where he stood, Loki allowed himself a moment of weakness and leaned into the wall, eyes turned towards the ceiling. The scenes of many a fight were depicted there, and he recognized himself in a few places, riding a white horse, two matching knives in his fists.

_Foreboding, green eyes; that's about what I remember from this dream._

If anyone else beside a member of his direct family had attacked him, even upon walking up from a nightmare, Loki would have done much worse than break their wrist… and he most certainly wouldn’t have used healing magic. But Jarnverr had gotten under his skin, and Loki had let it happen, and he wanted to blame Seeress Frigga’s prophecy, or even that disturbance in the fabric of space-time he’d picked on before seeing the Midgardian, but the truth was that, when he lay in his bed awake at night, the pang in his chest, that hint of an ache he wished with all his might to repress, was there because of the man’s wit, and the passion that shimmered around him like a halo whenever he worked on that damned armor.

Whenever he worked on his past.

Loki resumed his walk, hands clasped behind his back, chin held high. Odin wanted to meet with him about their intervention on Muspellheim, but he was now with Thor, and would signal him when his turn would come.

He would make a little detour by the workshop, and then go back to his books on magic. His mother had added a couple of tomes of her private collection, and he was eager to parse them for a possible answer to his many questions.

“… interesting thing you’re working on, Midgardian.”

“It is an armor, not a thing.”

“How long have you been working on it?”

It was definitely Fandral’s voice, decided Loki, which meant that his brother’s friend was with his pet, and…

Loki teleported straight into the doorway of the workshop and crossed his arms, glaring unwelcome sight.

Fandral was hovering over Jarnverr with a pleased smile. He must have come straight from the training arena, because he wore his armor and reeked. From his vantage point, Jarnverr didn’t seem overly bothered by either the proximity or the smell.

_He comes from so far away, the one who shall help, the one who absolves you of your crimes._

Loki pinched the bridge of his nose. Perhaps his crime would be to kill Fandral in single combat for daring to infringe on his property, for looking at his pet like he had rights to his body, and touching him with such familiarity. And then Jarnverr would help him hide the body and forgive him, because for some reason, Loki would feel guilt at having lost his temper over so casual an interaction.

If wishes were horses.

He strode into the workshop like he owned it, which was stretching the truth a bit, but not much.

“What can I do for you, Fandral? Are you looking for Thor?”

Fandral, the rascal, leaned even closer to Jarnverr. Loki was immensely pleased to note the flicker of unease on his pet’s face and had to rein in the sudden urge to grab the warrior by the throat and shove him into the blazing fireplace.

“Oh, I’ve seen him already, I was just curious to meet the mortal everyone’s been talking about.”

Loki arched a brow. Inwards, he was fuming.

“Well, Fandral, I believe you’ve seen him now.”

Jarnverr looked distinctly agitated now. For the life of him, Loki couldn’t understand why his intervention was making the Midgardian so nervous, whereas he’d seemed relieved to see him mere seconds ago.

Loki turned his full focus on him.

“You still had a lot of work to do, don’t you? Urgent work.”

Jarnverr blinked twice, then nodded. “Yes, exactly. I haven’t even taken a break yet.”

“It is a beautiful suit of armor,” Fandral complimented him.

“It is a gift to his god,” Loki said, not quite successful in repressing his anger.

Jarnverr’s eyes zeroed on his face, and Loki fought even harder to keep his temper in check. He’d had millennia to practice, and no mortal would cause him to lose his cool if it wasn’t his intent.

“Why would you need another armor, Loki?” Fandral prompted curiously.

With a quick look, Loki warned Jarnverr to stay silent. Thankfully, the mortal kept his mouth shut and resumed working on his armor.

“It is the Allfather’s wish to learn about Midgard’s technology,” Loki lied smoothly. “My task lies in supervising his work.”

“I thought he was a guest,” Fandral said, showing concern as he looked down at Jarnverr. “Unless I was mistaken, my Prince?”

“He is neither a slave or a prisoner, Fandral.” And if he was, he would be mine, and mine only, he thought fiercely. “I need to speak with him now. Alone.”

The warrior’s eyes twinkled with amusement. Loki had half a mind to ask for the pointy tool in Jarnverr’s hand and gouge those eyes out. The possessiveness that mortal inspired him knew no bound, apparently, and Loki would have been mad at him if he hadn’t been so busy mentally torturing Fandral.

“I will let you two… talk,” Fandral said, and the way he said that last word made it clear that talking was the very last thing he expected them to do. “Will I see you later at the training arena?”

“I might consider going a few rounds... to warm up.”

Loki’s tone was pleasing, but the murderous look he directed towards Fandral (and the few words he leaned in to whisper in his ear) caused the warrior to hurry out of the room. Once he’d made sure that Fandral was not eavesdropping (a spell took care of that), Loki returned his attention to Jarnverr.

Jarnverr was looking at him with a mixture of puzzlement and… was it  _awe_? Loki couldn’t quite help the satisfied smile that tugged at his lips.

“I believe we shall establish visiting hours, lest you never get anything done in your little playroom.”

“He’d been distracting me for two minutes, top." The mortal gestured at his armor, defiant in his demeanor. "Would you call that  _nothing_ , prince Loki?”

The use of his honorific, which Jarnverr so seldom bothered to use (or conveniently forgot), went straight to his groin. Loki laid his hand on the shoulder Fandral had touched him and squeezed it. The muscles seemed to spasm, and the skin was definitely sweaty, the fabric of the shirt clinging to it.

Content for now, Loki looked at the suit of armor lying on the table. Helmet, boots, leg and arm protections, breast plate… All made out of dwarfish metal, and well done at that. Each piece would fit Jarnverr’s body, if not perfectly, well enough. Loki could still adjust it with magic.

“What about padding?” he prompted.

And with just one question, the unease on Jarnverr’s face was gone, and the mortal was back to his talkative, enthusiastic self. Loki found himself unable to resist the temptation that was listening to him, and magicked one of the tall stools closer. He sat on it with his legs crossed, wearing one of his more familiar masks: indifference. Jarnverr wasn’t deterred, however, and spoke a mile a minute as if his life depended on the numbers of words he could squeeze in his little talk.

“It would be nice to test it, even if I understand why I can’t,” Jarnverr concluded with clear melancholy.

The Jarnverr from before (or whatever he’d been called) would have used the creating he’d built. His hands attested to it.

“We shall test it,” Loki said, smiling as the mortal froze on the spot, wonder shining in his eyes. “It is interesting, and beautiful. Furthermore, it will reassure my people that you can’t harm them.”

Jarnverr didn’t look as bothered as Loki would have expected. He discovered why the next time the mortal opened his mouth.

“I don’t think your father really wants me to build anything that could be considered offensive,” he said on a light tone that might have fooled some people, but Loki knew better.

“It is nevertheless the official story,” Loki said firmly, raising a hand to prevent further objections. “Mortals need to… earn the privilege of staying on Asgard.”

“Are you always this superior to other species, or is condescension a unique trait you possess, Loki?”

The fiery look in Jarnverr’s eyes made him glad he’d taken care of his body’s needs that morning. His lips curled in a smirk. Jarnverr reacted so fast, so well to Loki’s taunts. If the mystery that mortal personified hadn’t been so dangerous, if his own fate hadn’t been so tightly bound to the mortal’s, Loki would have made his move by now, because he had to know if Jarnverr would lose his mind under his skilled mouth and cock as easily as he'd lost his cool just now.

“I merely wish to discover if you are as skilled with your hands as you pretend, pet.”

“I am not a pet, damn it.”

 “You can be Jarnverr, and still be my pet,” Loki countered easily.

Jarnverr scoffed. “And you can be a god and a smartass, I get it.”

“You would do well to watch your tongue, mortal.”

“I am not afraid of you.”

They both knew it was a lie. Loki let it go.

“We shall test that armor as soon as you’re done with it,” he said in a neutral tone. “When do you think you will be done?”

“But-” Jarnverr laid a hand on the breastplate, brow furrowed. “You’re a  _prince_. What if I hurt you?”

Jarnverr had assumed that Loki would be his opponent, and suddenly, Loki couldn’t imagine the fight going any other way.

“I can protect myself. You can’t hurt me, but I…”

Two sets of eyes fell upon the once broken wrist. Loki opened his mouth, but Jarnverr was faster.

“It’s fine. I still believe-”

“Don’t say it.”

Loki backed him against the table. The expression in Jarnverr’s eyes had to go away,  _now_.

“Loki-”

“ _Don’t say it_ ,” he hissed. “Don’t dare imply I would hurt you on purpose. If I wasn’t-”

If he wasn’t so afraid of himself, the mysterious prophecy his mother had made and the hold that mortal had on him, Loki would chain him to his bed and fix everything wrong in his body, fuck him like a Midgardian had never been fucked, but gently, and then find the key to his locked memories. In that order.

The mortal was a fool, if he thought that Loki had meant to harm him, and Loki was a fool for not wanting any ill to befall him.

“If you weren’t what?”

Jarnverr’s brown eyes were wide, wide open in an invitation to sample his emotions. His cheeks were tinted red, and his lips parted slightly, showing a hint of tongue. He looked… subjugated.

And Loki just couldn’t seem to bring himself to back away. There were mere inches between their mouths, and even less between their noses. One step was all it would take to bring their lips together and turn Loki’s world on its ear.

“Finish that armor,” he said in a low purr that tore a gasp from Jarnverr's throat. “And get some sleep before you collapse again.”

He teleported away before the mortal had a chance to reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki's got so much self-control it's amazing ;P


	9. Claimed by a God (Tony)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter shows the events in the workshop from Tony's perspective, and the next one (chapter 10) will pick up directly after that one.

Not thinking about the nightmare from which he'd woken up in completely berserk was surprisingly easy. Jarnverr had but to work on his suit of armor to forget, if only momentarily, about the violent fight with Loki.

Forgetting about the man himself, no, the _god_ , was more of a challenge. Even at the top of his form and with his mind swirling with new ideas for the armor, he could still feel Loki's hand on his wrist snapping the bones as if they'd been mere twigs. He could still feel, all too clearly, the soothing warmth of the god's healing magic afterwards, and more dangerous for his already precarious mental state, their little chat in bed before he fell asleep.

_For all your protests, you heel rather nicely, pet._

A violent shiver ran up his spine as he slammed down the hammer on the suit's helmet. He shouldn't be thinking about Loki, damn it; he should be looking for a way home, which that suit that made him feel safe, himself, might be in some very convoluted way, but here he was instead, lost in thoughts of one green-eyed god...

... of the green-eyed person from his nightmare...

... of Loki's cold yet warmth presence at his back that night, and also on many other occasions, notably on that morning when the he'd materialized in the bathroom and taken it upon his godly self to shave him, wielding the blade with such certainty, such sensuality, that Jarnverr found himself revisiting the memories way, _way_ more often than he should…

"Enough," he scolded himself out loud. To the dwarf's perplexed look, he added: "'m just talking to myself. Nothing new under the sun, buddy."

His eyes fell on the old book opened at the other end of the table, secure in between rows of tools and covered by a clean cloth. It was a book about Midgard, that Loki had left for him in the guest's bedroom before leaving for How-the-fuck-Should-He-Know-Where. A note had been left as a bookmark, a few words written in an elegant script that had vanished into thin air as soon as Jarnverr had read it.

Magic.

 _For you to query your past, Jarnverr,_ the note had read.

Jarnverr.

He definitely had a love-hate relationship with the name he’d been given. On the one hand, he couldn't very well be addressed by its English translation, as those two words tended to leave him passed out and bleeding if he thought about them long enough, or heard them, even out of his own mouth. Furthermore, the other options weren't really better: Midgardian, mortal, pet... Besides he needed a name. And on the other hand, Loki really had a unique way of saying those two syllables, as if he was caressing them, and somehow stroking his skin as well, inside and out.

All in all, the name was both a threat to his life and sanity, and he liked it and feared it in equal measures.

Which, coincidentally, also summed up his feelings for Loki.

Jarnverr laid down his hammer with an annoyed snarl, went in the adjacent washroom to clean his hands as best he could, and then returned to the working table, to busy himself some more with the thick leather-bound book.

_Midgard: The Realm of the Mortals_

He was almost done reading the two thousand-page antiquity, and he couldn't say it had helped him in any significant way. Sure, the book contained tons of generic information about Earth (that name sounded way more familiar than Midgard), but it was all from an outsider's perspective, and besides, Jarnverr didn't want to know about the continental drift or the human slow evolution and short lifespan.

He wanted to know who he was.

Tugging at his goatee, he tried to make sense of what he knew.

He was a mortal man of maybe forty-five, who had for some reason traveled between realms and had no significant memory of his past. Even the violent dreams that plagued him at night left his memory once he woke up, leaving him grasping after straws with the few tidbits he’d retained: blood, pepper (but not the spice), and green eyes.

He also knew that someone had tried to kill him and had nearly succeeded. The scar at his throat was a constant reminder, and so was that device in his chest that Loki claimed contained a great deal of energy. Jarnverr brushed it with his thumb through his sweat-soaked tunic. What else did he know?

Well, he was curious as hell, imaginative, determined and probably not as careful as he should in his dealings with deities. He was also knowledgeable in metal work, and could build an armor without schematics or directives, as was attested by the various suit parts scattered about the table. His work sure attracted a lot of attention, and the warmth Jarnverr felt at being observed in wonder and by discussing with awed dwarves let him know that popularity suited him. Which, in this case, was probably a good thing: the more people he met, the best were his chances that something someone would say, or do, jogged his memory.

Jarnverr turned the page with a scowl; still nothing relevant. He knew better than to throw the offending book in the fire, though, as Loki had been very clear on the punishment that would befall him should his loan be damaged in any way. A mortal such as him (those had been the god’s words, of course) shouldn’t even be allowed to read a book from the Asgardian Royal Library.

Well, in Tony’s mind, he shouldn’t be allowed to build a suit of armor either, but if Loki had ordered it done in some roundabout way that suited him perfectly, what else was an amnesiac mortal to do?

He closed the book and returned to his work. While he waited for some of the metal panels to melt, he pondered over Loki’s current whereabouts. All he knew was that the self-proclaimed god of lies was ‘away on business’.

And that he missed their interactions. Missed the way those green eyes would light up with mischief, missed the way that the god's voice would turn into a purr when the teasing was at its peak, missed the almost casual touches… Loki had both saved his life and threatened to end it more than once should Jarnverr’s memories and true intentions pose a threat, and yet it didn’t feel like a contradiction, nor did it bother him. He knew Loki was just as fascinated by him that he was by the god of lies.

But even gods of lies betrayed themselves every now and then.

“You’re an idiot,” Jarnverr told himself firmly.

This time, the dwarf didn’t look up from his notes. With an aggravated sigh, Jarnverr collected the melted dwarfish metal and proceeded to cool it down to adjust the leg pieces of the armor.

When he heard footsteps at the door, he couldn’t help the way his whole face lit up with excitement. He turned around, fully expecting to see Loki standing there with his usual grace, an unimpressed brow raised as he waited for his 'pet' to greet him.

But it wasn’t Loki standing there.

“Hi there.”

The man was a little taller than Jarnverr, slender and blue-eyed, with long blond hair arranged in a long braid thrown over one muscled shoulder. He was wearing the kind of clothes Jarnverr had come to associate with training, mostly because Loki liked to complain about the warrior ways of his people.

Jarnverr rested a hip against his worktable and pasted on his most confident smile. Up till now, most of his visitors of the Asgardian variety were either doubtful of his skills, disapproving of his presence or intrigued by his work, or a mixture of the three.

That one was different: he only shot the armor a quick look before focusing all of his attention on Jarnverr.

“I am Fandral,” he said, not quite as haughtily as Jarnverr would have expected. “And you must be Prince Loki’s… protégé.”

“Can I help you with something, Fandral?”

Going by the amused smile played on the man’s lips, his impertinence wasn’t a big deal.

“I was just curious as to what the Midgardian in our midst was up to. You've become quite a hot topic in my absence.”

Now, Jarnverr wasn’t born yesterday, and there was no mistaking the interested gleam in the man’s eyes. He shrugged and twisted his torso around, reaching for his hammer. Not every problem was a nail, but he still felt better with something in his hand.

“’just building some stuff,” he said casually.

“I can see that,” the man, Fandral, said as he took a step closer.

Jarnverr fought the reflex to grimace at the displeasing odor of sweat and blood. Fandral probably expected him to be impressed by his muscles and the violence he wore like a crown, but god or no god (and Jarnverr had his doubts), he didn’t appeal to him in the slightest. He just lacked that flicker or curiosity in his eyes, the very gleam…

… that seemed to be the default setting with Loki, who was always so intrigued and passionate about the world, and Jarnverr…

Fandral's next words helped him put a stop to that dangerous train of thoughts.

“Whatever is the final design, it sure is an interesting thing you’re working on, Midgardian.”

Jarnverr scoffed. “It is an armor, not a thing.”

Fandral took another step closer, very clearly entering his personal space. Jarnverr was _not_ happy.

“How long have you been working on it?”

Just then, Jarnverr felt another presence in the workshop, and his heart (the traitor) missed a beat as his eyes met Loki’s over Fandral’s head. The rage written in those green orbs tugged at something inside him.

“You’re very good with your hands,” Fandral went on, oblivious to the oncoming interruption. His voice had taken on a sultry edge, but Jarnverr refused to show unease towards this man, this god, even if the other had laid a hand on his shoulder, thumb caressing him through his shirt. He disguised a shiver of disgust (that guy reeked something fierce) into a shrug.

“That’s what the dwarves had told me,” he said, playing with the hammer in his hand, before setting it down on the table. “Now, I’m always happy to get a new fan, but-”

“What can I do for you, Fandral? Are you looking for Thor?”

Jarnverr’s breathing sped up at the murderous look the god of lies shot Fandral. The latter said something about already having seen Thor, but Jarnverr only caught half the words, more interested (fascinated, really), by the honest display of emotions on Loki’s face.

Rage. Pure, undiluted rage. And hunger, just as raw.

Jarnverr’s felt an answering hunger swirl deep in his loins and wanted to punch himself. _Now’s really not the time,_ he told his swelling cock. Especially with Fandral standing so close to him.

Fandral who would sense his erection if he leaned any closer, and mistaken the source of his interest.

“Well, Fandral, I believe you’ve seen him now,” Loki snapped. “You still had a lot of work to do, don’t you? Urgent work.”

Those last words were addressed to him, Jarnverr realized belatedly. He mumbled something and wondered if he could put some distance between Fandral and himself without being too obvious about it. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have hesitated to shove the other man away, but he was in a realm of gods and didn’t fancy dying at the hands of an offended man… god, whatever.

Pretexting the urgent need to return to his work, he accomplished his goal. As he pretended to adjust the straps of leathers he’d cut for the helmet, he listened in to the two gods’ conversation. Even with his back to them, Jarnverr could feel Loki’s anger like a physical touch at his nape, a pressure that kept him bent over the table, staring hard at his calloused hands and the scars from his past. Such anger felt sweet on his tongue, and heady in his groin. It felt like…

Possessiveness.

Jarnverr bit back a choked gasp.

“I will let you two… talk,” Fandral said, jerking him out of his thoughts. “Will I see you later at the training arena?”

Loki’s reply sounded like a threat. Too curious to pretend to be engrossed in his work, Jarnverr swiveled around just in time to see Loki whisper something in Fandral’s ear.

The other blanched quite spectacularly and left the workshop without another word.

“I believe we shall establish visiting hours, lest you never get anything done in your little playroom.”

Jarnverr felt his heart speed up under Loki’s appraising glance. The god might talk and act like Jarnverr was beneath him, he’d just shown a very different hand. Loki felt possessive of him, of that there was zero doubt in Jarnverr's mind.

But possessive _how?_ Of the mystery that Jarnverr was? Of his attention? Was Loki afraid that Jarnverr would slip through his fingers? But as one of the two princes of Asgard, surely he wielded the necessary power to keep him for himself, even take every decision about Jarnverr’s life?

About his death, too?

Jarnverr's right hand slipped on the edge of the table.

“He’d been distracting me for two minutes, top." He pursed his lips and gestured at the armor that, after all, he was making for the green-eyed god. "Would you call that nothing, prince Loki?”

The look in Loki’s eyes shifted brutally. Between one moment and the next, the god was towering over him, one hand splayed on the shoulder Fandral had touched earlier.

Yes, Jarnverr thought with a rush of heat; the god was _definitely_ establishing his claim.

He said the first thing that crossed his mind, because that was apparently how he worked.

“What about padding?”

The god got himself a stool and sat down with his usual grace. Whatever tension still stiffened Jarnverr’s shoulders left him, and he discussed the true purpose of the armor with newfound ease. When Loki suggested they tested it in a duel, Jarnverr almost dropped his helmet in shock. He voiced his concern about hurting Loki, a _prince_ , but the god brushed them aside.

“I can protect myself. You can’t hurt me, but I…”

As if of a common accord, they both looked down at the wrist Loki had broken a few days ago.

Jarnverr bit his lip. He wouldn’t let that incident damage that... thing between them. He needed Loki as much as Loki seemed to need to solve the mystery of his presence on Asgard.

“It’s fine,” he said hastily. “I still believe-”

“Don’t say it.”

Jarnverr’s breath hitched as Loki crowded him against the table. Fear flared in Jarnverr’s chest and splashed over his features, widening his eyes before he could get it under control. Loki could kill him, but Loki wouldn’t. Not until…

“Loki-”

“ _Don’t say it_.” That mixture of anger and anguish in the god’s bright green eyes tugged at his heartstrings. “Don’t dare imply I would hurt you on purpose. If I wasn’t-”

Jarnverr’s heart beat completely out of rhythm. The fantasy of Loki’s body pressing him into the table, lining up their bodies like matching pieces of a puzzle, flooded his body with adrenaline. He could picture only too easily those strong hands on his chest, keeping him into place as their hips rocked together. Loki would bite his earlobe and draw blood, because he could and the mere thought made Jarnverr that much more aroused. And then the god would suck the tender skin over his pulse point, ordering him to _kneel_ and _take it_.

And Jarnverr would. He didn’t know the first relevant thing about himself and yet he knew with acute certainty that he would let the god bed him if no more bones were broken in the process. Even if he feared him. Even if the fear could be a hint from his past to steer clear of the green-eyed god of lies.

As his half-erect cock throbbed in his pants, demanding attention, Jarnverr bit down a low moan. Was he experiencing some twisted kind of Stockholm’s syndrome, and why the fuck did he remember what _that_ was, and not his own goddamn name?

“If you weren’t what?” he croaked, remembering Loki’s words, and forcing his mind away from his body’s needs.

For a moment, he was convinced that Loki was going to kiss him. He would let him. In the few days the god had been away, Jarnverr realized, he'd truly missed him: the easy banter, the teasing, even the threats to his life and the condescension. Loki felt familiar.

And dangerous, safe.

_Possessive of him._

He parted his lips, closed his eyes…

“Finish that armor,” Loki purred, and Jarnverr came out of his trance with wide eyes. Loki was so close, so close. He had to be aware of his effect on Jarnverr. “And get some sleep before you collapse again.”

Before Jarnverr could think of an appropriate reply, Loki teleported away.

“Fuck.”

He sagged against the table and allowed his hands to shake.

Did he usually put himself in that kind of mess, or was Loki uniquely talented in undoing him?

For a man after as many answers as possible, he sure feared that one. 

*

When the dwarf sitting on the high stool by the hearth left at last, Jarnverr felt as though his body had waited for the last spectator to leave before acknowledging weariness: he collapsed into a chair and buried his face into his hands. A little voice informed him that he was smudging grease and nastier things all over his face, but there was no one to impress.

He had half a mind to fall asleep in the chair, but he dreaded the prospect of waking up in that berserk state again too much and so cleared his working area before leaving. The corridors would be mostly empty at this late hour, and anyway, it wouldn’t the first time he navigated the huge halls of the palace on his own. And if he got distracted and took a wrong corner at some point, he could always ask a maid, and-

A prickling sensation at the back of his neck brought him to a full stop just outside the workshop. Further down the corridor to his left, the moonlight shining through the transparent ceiling outlined a vaguely familiar shape. His throat closed up as the shadows receded, exposing beautiful, serene features framed by long golden braids.

“Jarnverr of Midgard,” said a feminine voice. It was solemn yet gentle, easing some of Jarnverr’s misgivings. “I am Frigga, Queen of Asgard. Will you walk with me in the gardens?”

Jarnverr’s first thought was that he must have done something wrong. His second thought was that she really looked nothing like Loki, who as the prince must be her son.

He bowed briefly. “I believe it’s a wonderful night for a stroll,” he managed with some of what he'd come to recognize as his usual charm. “And I am pleased to meet you, Your Majesty.”

The Queen’s smile was thin but genuine, and to Jarnverr, seemed to admit to many a secret in the silence that followed. Awkwardly, Jarnverr bowed again and offered his arm.

Frigga of Asgard placed a dainty hand in the crook of his elbow and led him outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologize for the delay, but I just wrapped up the final correction of my latest English manuscript yesterday and sent it back to that publisher who'd shown interest for version 1.0, so... :) If time is on my side, I might even manage another chapter for this fic *very* soon!  
> Thanks to everyone who've been supporting this story so far, and welcome to all the new readers :)


	10. The Song of Magic (Loki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter directly follows the events of chapter 9. Some plot happens (and some more pining, because). My thanks to everyone who's been following the story and shared their enthusiasm, and welcome to those who've just boarded the amnesia/pining/frostiron train!

Loki had always enjoyed the quietness of nighttime, and the stars that dotted the sky like so many possibilities.

Tonight, he couldn’t think of anything beside the mortal in the workshop, and the claim Fandral, of all the annoying Asgardians who did their best to thwart his plans in a fit of misguided pride, had meant to lay on him.

Standing by the tall window of his bed chambers, Loki balled his fists. He should have left Jarnverr, _Iron Man_ , to fend for himself. Should himself leave the palace to have someone take care of his body’s needs. But he already knew that he wouldn’t be satisfied with just anybody, that the partner he sought would need to have brown eyes and brown hair, just like most if not all of his previous conquests.

How could he know Jarnverr and yet not know him? How could every man he’d wished to fuck (and ended up fucking) be look-alikes of a mortal he'd met so recently he didn't know yet of his every habit, taste and weakness?

Loki felt as though the Norns were messing with him and had half a mind to request an audience, but he forced himself to see reason as he drilled some holes into the ceiling of his bedroom with small blasts of his magic. The Norns were too busy weaving the threads that made up the fate of the universe to ever meet with lesser gods, even one whose mother was blessed by them. The sad truth was that he was too expandable, and too... unimportant, to ever get a personal intervention, or even just an explanation, from the most powerful beings in all of Yggdrasil, any more than a Midgardian could hope to defeat a god in single combat.

And yet Jarnverr was building his suit of armor, and worrying about _him_.

Jarnverr was everything he’d ever wanted, and precisely what, or rather whom, he shouldn’t pursue.

With a snarl of frustration, Loki brought the rest of the ceiling down, then built it again from scratch, pointedly not wondering about the strange feel of his seiðr. Frigga’s prophecy nagged at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch, and his self-control, especially his ability to resist this mortal’s charms, was becoming ridiculously hard to muster these days.

“Damn you, Iron Man,” he cursed aloud. “Damn your mystery, and the hunger you stir up within a god.” Unable to stay still any longer, he rose and began pacing back and forth as he parsed the words of the prophecy that made no sense in the present. Only the future would tell of their meaning…

… and of the Midgardian’s past.

Loki paused. The sensation that understanding was close taunted him. What was it about time that should explain his current predicament, he wondered, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. Why couldn’t he see it, now?

“By the Norns, this is ridiculous.”

He rested a hip against his writing desk and laid a palm over the window that overlooked the Queen’s gardens. He hated feeling so obsessive, so _vulnerable_. And as if spending every waking hour thinking of that infuriating mortal wasn’t enough, there was that matter with his magic that he should investigate further, but he was dangerously close to having exhausted all of his resources. What was it that Jarnverr had said the other night after their… fight?

_Are you cold? You feel cold._

A powerful knock at the door jerked him out of his thoughts. Considering that only one person in all the realm had such an awful sense of timing, and threatened to break down his door whenever possible, Loki inhaled deeply, wishing the knot of anger and unease away. His brother wasn’t to blame. He probably would have handled the situation better than Loki, and wasn’t that a sobering thought?

“Come in, Thor,” he called tiredly.

His brother entered his chambers and closed the door behind him with more haste than usual. He didn’t look pleased.

Loki arched an eyebrow.

“What is it?”

The last time Thor had looked so disappointed, Loki had just told him that he didn’t find much pleasure in battle. It had taken Thor _years_ to accept that fact, and not insist whenever Loki brought up an excuse to leave the battlefield a little early.

“Your Midgardian,” Thor began, and for an obvious reason that managed to both comfort and annoy him, Loki derived pleasure from the use of the possessive pronoun.

“What had he done now?”

Thor crossed his arms. “You are being too lenient with him.”

“Am I?”

“Surely you, the most cunning of house Odin after our father, couldn’t fail to have noticed that he doesn’t use your proper title to address you!”

Loki swallowed back a relieved sigh.

“We have an understanding,” he said with just a hint of amusement.

Thor was too angry to pick it up. His insistence that Loki be treated like he deserved made Loki feel a little better about this whole… situation.

“Is he really that interesting?” Thor insisted.

“We haven’t welcomed a Midgardian into our realm for some centuries, Thor. I’m enjoying myself while I measure their civilizations’ accomplishments, and decide if they are worthy of been brought to the Allfather’s attention.” Loki feigned puzzlement. “Don’t you find him entertaining as well?”

“Stop trying to answer me with further questions, brother.” Then Thor cracked a smile and walked to him, laying both hands on his brother’s shoulders. “Is it what your unusual leniency is about? Do you miss having a friend so much when I’m away?”

Loki almost shoved him through the window for daring imply that he needed a friend, but he shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, even if his ego had to take a blow. Besides, his brother knew how to land much too well after centuries of physical taunts.

“I’m always in need of good company,” he said casually, certain that Thor wouldn’t get the reference to sex. While his brother thought about sex like the next Asgardian and indulged himself frequently enough, he wouldn’t understand Loki’s choice in companions, and even less his recent half-abstinence, and the unique focus of his fantasies. Fantasies such as Jarnverr tied up to his bed, legs spread out invitingly, his hole pink and gleaming with oil-

Enough, he told himself.

He managed to get rid of Thor under less than five minutes, after which he spent a while in his bathing suite, stroking himself hard and fast to thoughts that had _nothing_ to do, at all, with a certain brown-eyed and brown-haired mortal man with too much curiosity and wits and not enough self-preservation. He climaxed hard with a name on his lips, a name that was _not_ Jarnverr, or any other version of it, and he didn’t hurry to clean himself up out of embarrassment or frustration.

Shortly after, he was back to pacing the length of his rooms, mentally revising complex notions of teleportation, when a familiar voice came in through the window. Actually, a little voice informed him, familiar voice _s,_ plural.

He rushed to the window and cast a look down. "How in all the realms..."

His mother and Jarnverr were taking a stroll. Together. And his mortal was laughing, and Frigga chuckling with what Loki recognized as honest amusement.

Annoyance led way to curiosity. Putting on a black tunic laced on the sides and his favorite pair of tight-fitting black trousers with a swirl of magic, he teleported himself out of his quarters and down into the gardens, a few paces behind the duo. He made sure to cloak himself in an invisibility spell, aware that Frigga would sense him, but the point was to conceal himself from Jarnverr.

He caught up with them in a matter of seconds and saw in his mother’s stance the moment when she picked up his magical signature. She turned further towards Jarnverr and shot his son the briefest glance. Loki read in those piercing eyes the usual mixture of warmth, amusement and concern. He shook his head and lifted a finger to his lips. Frigga didn’t blink.

“… really find it so surprising?” she continued, as though their silent exchange had never taken place. “If so many visitors come to see you work, it is because you are an unexpected guest, a talented man, who’d impressed our dwarves, some of the beings most difficult to impress,” she said pleasantly, smiling back at Jarnverr, who was preening at the comment. “As much as Asgard has evolved over the millennia, our realm is one that could be qualified of... stagnant. We enjoy what we have too much to wish for a change, at times.”

Loki arched a surprised brow; his mother sure was forthcoming with her opinions towards a man who inspired so much suspicion among the Asgardians.

Jarnverr clasped his hands behind his back.

“I might come to realize what you mean in time, but everything is still so… new, for me, that I can only try and understand everything around me,” he said with an equal amount of deference and cheekiness.

Frigga chuckled again.

“I have been warned of your candor, and I begin to see why my youngest son enjoys your company so much.”

Jarnverr’s eyes widened a little; Loki’s narrowed in displeasure. Why would his mother compliment their guest in such a way as to put one of her sons, whom she loved dearly, in a position of vulnerability? Loki might call it any other name, but the truth remained that-

Jarnverr licked his lips nervously, cutting short this train of thoughts. “Lok- Prince Loki,” he said with definite nervousness, “has been very, well… _good_ to me. He saved my life. And he trusts me on many things that are important to me.”

“He is the god of lies,” Frigga replied easily. “And a good judge of characters.”

Oh. _Oh._

Relief washed through Loki. Of course his mother was not exposing him; she was taking the measure of his _protégé,_ wielding the truth where Loki tended to use lies. And his pet’s embarrassment, and obvious gratefulness, soothed part of the ache constantly growing within him. He watched the mortal rub at his face to try and hide some of that embarrassment and had to stifle a laugh as Jarnverr spread grease and dirt all over his face. When Frigga pointed it out to him, he blushed at last.

“I might not remember much, but I’m pretty sure I wasn’t a royal of any kind,” he mumbled, rubbing frantically at his face, and basically making it worse.

Loki exchanged a look with his mother.

“I must leave you now, Jarnverr, but you will be in good hands.”

“What-” The mortal lifted his head, but Frigga had already blinked out of existence. He pursed his lips and turned around. His expression when he realized he wasn't alone caused Loki to laugh, low and satisfied, like one of the cats who every so often brought their preys to him for praise.

“L-Loki?”

“You certainly are not of royal blood,” Loki purred, sensing how his own blood warmed from the approving gleam in the mortal’s eyes. He had donned some of his best clothes. “You lack the elegance-”

“Excuse me, but I am the most elegant-”

“And you never know when to stop talking, don’t you, pet?”

Loki had teleported right in front of him, startling the mortal into silence. He allowed himself one touch: his index finger on the mortal’s chin. He tilted it up and gazed intently into those eyes, curious and hungry and still swimming with a fear some powerful magic had locked away.

"I like to talk," Jarnverr pouted.

“That much is clear to everyone, I think.”

Jarnverr’s skin was warm and rough, and under Loki’s sensitive finger, marred with teeny-tiny scars of his former life. He smelled like sweat, oil and metal, and Loki despised himself a little more for how appealing his own body found that smell. He willed his erection away and pressed his thumb further into Jarnverr’s chin, wiping out the grease and dirt from his face, pretending to need an anchor for his magic.

The mortal’s throat bobbed.

“What did you do? My face feels weird. And you’re acting- weirder.”

Loki glared at him, but there was not enough heat behind it.

“Is that any way to thank the one who keeps helping you? I merely cleaned the mess you've made, pet. I thought you trusted?”

Jarnverr’s eyes flashed with anger, but the heat in them, Loki liked to believe, had more than one source.

“How many times must I tell you, god of lies, that- Hey, are you even listening to me?”

Loki lifted a hand to silence him.

“Don’t. Move.”

Jarnverr obeyed, but Loki was not appeased, because a gold and red butterfly was hovering over the mortal’s head. Loki couldn’t quite keep still as it landed on top of a mop of brown hair. Those butterflies were dangerous all right, and not just because of their poisonous darts: they could teleport at will to kill, and it was rumored that they were sentient, on top of being the Norn's familiars. They were usually affectionate towards magic users, as shown by their tendency to fly about Frigga whenever she cast a complicated spell or made a prophecy, and they seemed to like Loki well enough. But there had been cases of some turning berserk and killing entire armies in the past. Not on Asgard, but Loki was wary.

He was wary because the butterflies never visited him when he was on his own.

And now one was behaving quite strangely, and possibly putting Jarnverr’s life at risk.

Without thinking further, Loki put on a shield around both himself and the mortal… except that the shield refused to extend past his own person. Baffled, Loki directed more power into it, but the familiar (the creature sure seemed powerful enough right now to claim that title) kept it at bay so easily Loki soon felt the strain on his core. Seeing how Jarnverr tried to move and speak, Loki redirected part of his seiðr to immobilize him.  
He didn’t understand what was happening. By all means, the butterfly shouldn’t be attracted to a mortal, but then said mortal _had been brought here through magical means_. What did the familiar want with him? It was not behaving aggressively, so what was his goal? The red and gold creature was merely singing its harmless song.

As if the situation wasn’t surreal enough, more butterflies appeared. Two became three, and three became four, all content to touch some part of the mortal’s head, and Loki’s jaw dropped, his blood turned to ice, and Jarnverr… Loki must have lost his grip on the spell keeping Jarnverr in check, or the familiars must have messed with his seiðr, because the infuriating Midgardian _burst out laughing_.

“Why are you looking at me like that, Loki? Haven’t seen a butterfly in your long godly life?” To Loki’s horror, he raised one hand and shooed the creatures away. “Seriously, what is it with those butterflies and me-”

Loki pulled at the mortal’s wrist so hard that Jarnverr lost his footing and would have fallen to his knees had Loki not held him so tightly. They were so close now that Loki could feel the curve of Jarnverr’s smile on his chest, and surely the mortal could hear just how fast his heart was beating?

“Remember that I’m fragile,” Jarnverr had the gall to say. He even tried to pry himself free, but Loki would not let him go.

If he was honest with himself, he didn’t think he could ever let him go.

“You might not _remember_ ,” he said very, very coldly, not quite embracing just yet his relief that the _six_ familiars had not protested the harsh treatment and simply flown away, “but those butterflies are no mere insects; they are magical creatures that could kill you with one touch! Their poison is so potent there is no cure-”

“I like their song, and I like danger,” the mortal cut him tartly, and Loki could tell, without thinking, because a blush suddenly crept up his neck and cheeks.

Loki, too, must be addicted to danger, or else the fear wouldn’t have changed to desire so fast.

“You won’t act ever so rashly again, am I making myself clear?”

Jarnverr nodded, but he obviously wanted to argue.

“Is it not the first time you encounter these creatures, pet? Tell me.”

“I am _not-_ ” Facing Loki’s most threatening glare, he quickly backpedaled. “Well, when I first woke up in this… realm, there was a couple of those... things … hovering about. I could swear one was studying me, even. Are they sentient, Loki?”

Loki shivered violently. Slowly, reluctantly, he let go of his pet’s wrists to cup his face. Jarnverr’s cheeks were still tinted red.

Such beauty, he thought with something akin to reverence. Such recklessness, such wit, such appeal. His own doom was writing over those features he couldn’t seem to forget, even in sleep.

“What is it? Are you- Those supposedly magical butterflies are really that dangerous?”

“Yes,” Loki replied softly, brushing his thumbs over the coarse hair decorating his mortal’s cheeks. “They could kill you in less than a minute.”

“And you in less than a second, by twisting my neck,” Jarnverr whispered.

“I wouldn’t even need to touch you,” Loki whispered back.

Jarnverr inhaled deeply. “Why is it that none of us understands all that shit? What is- Oh, _come on,_ I don’t want to- sl- eep…”

The mortal’s body became limp in his arms. Loki lifted it from the ground with ease and pulled it close to his chest. The fear returned, and with it the kind of determination that might or might not have caused him some trouble in the past.

*

Watching Jarnverr sleep was not how he’d expected to finish that night, but then he should know better than to deny his own needs.

Sitting cross-legged on the soft bed, one hand splayed on Jarnverr’s hip, Loki studied every minute shift on the mortal’s face. Anger had just given way to fear. Then, anger again. Jarnverr’s breathing was ragged, and he was sweating profusely, but Loki didn’t wish to wake him just yet. He knew, he just _knew_ that whatever dream plagued his pet was linked to his past, and he would not hinder any chance they had to break through his amnesia. He was wont to cause the mortal further pain by entering his mind to dissect it, which meant that he had to keep out of the dreamscape as well.

He’d been sitting there for hours, adding color to his mental portrait of Jarnverr, when the mortal seemed to stop breathing. Alarmed, Loki leaned forwards and sent a tendril of seiðr in between those parted lips.

“Don’t you dare die on me,” he whispered. “I alone shall decide of your fate.”

The last word tasted bitter on his tongue. After bringing a sleeping Jarnverr to bed, he’d gone to seek an audience with the Norns. He’d made the mistake of hoping, of being the optimist he never was, and had been so disappointed when he’d been turned down by a disembodied voice he could have destroyed the walls of the cave in an emotional display of magic, had the Halls of the Norns not been warded against such things.

Jarnverr relaxed at last, and Loki ran his fingers up the mortal’s side, watching with interest as goosebumps exploded all over his skin. Jarnverr mumbled something, but Loki couldn’t make sense of it. Some nonsense about spices? Pepper? No pepper? Puzzled, he set his wandering hand on the mortal’s clothed chest, running his fingertips along the edges of the contraption embedded in his flesh.  

If the Norns who'd granted him magic didn’t wish to give him the answers he was looking for with increasing urgency, he would find those answers on his own.

He only managed to leave the guest room, and Jarnverr, a few hours later, but when he did, he stopped by the kitchen to order breakfast and then retreated to his quarters for another long day of study. He would find the answers he needed.

In the end, he always got what he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who knows how soon I might get to update this story? *crosses finger*  
> PS: there's a fight incoming.


	11. The Breakfast Before the Fight (Tony)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, Tony's caught between two fires.

Even though that particular breakfast ought to drive his senses into an appreciative frenzy, Jarnverr merely played around with the colorful content of his plate. Hunger was the very last thing on his mind, which kept wandering back to that night a couple of weeks ago.

The whole evening had been a series of discoveries and awkward moments. First that Fandral guy had shown up and made his interest abundantly clear. Jarnverr couldn’t imagine a world in which he would be even remotely interested in that species of idiots, and Loki’s reaction upon seeing the two of them standing so close to one another, talking…

Well, it was no wonder Jarnverr had dreamed steamy dreams that night, and many a night thereafter. Those dreams he always remembered, probably because they didn’t pertain to his past, but rather a future that wouldn’t come to pass. Most of them began in the workshop, and diverged once Loki walked in, dragged him off to some anonymous room and proceeded to mark him as his own.

In some dreams, the god forced him to his knees and feed him his cock, which Jarnverr always sucked with such enthusiasm that he woke up thirsty, yearning to see Loki’s face as the god orgasmed; in others, Loki would take him from behind, pound into him hard and fast, and whisper in his ear all kind of possessive endearments until Jarnverr begged for release and eventually returned to the world hard as a rock. The fact that he’d woken up on the morning following that eventful evening convinced that someone had watched over his sleep had only lent fuel to his excitation, and he’d stroked himself to completion with little noises of distress (of want, frustration).

He'd come with Loki’s fierce gaze tattooed on his eyelids.

Tracing eights in his plate with the purple juice of a fruit he’d barely touched, Jarnverr steered his thoughts away from that dangerous road and back to what should concern him, for example that stroll with the queen. He still couldn’t believe that he’d talked to royalty with his face full of grease and dirt, but more importantly, he remembered the distinctively piercing look the queen had shot him before handing him over to Loki. She would keep an eye on him, those eyes had told him. Beware.

Jarnverr had understood the look all too well. What still puzzled him were the fucking _butterflies_.

Loki’s fear had been so potent that Jarnverr couldn’t think of any other reaction beside laughing. Since when were insects sentient? Glaring at the purple juice slowly invading the meat zone of his plate, Jarnverr cursed. Perhaps he should be worried. If Loki was worried, and Loki was somehow able to circumvent the laws of physics, Jarnverr should probably be running in the opposite direction.

Except that he wasn’t, was he? He liked danger; he’d told Loki as much.

So there he was, breakfasting in his own rooms in the company of his finished suit of armor.

A gold and red suit of armor.

Jarnverr pulled the armor closer. Loki had thrown a fit when he’d seen the color, but the dwarves in attendance (a dozen) had been so clearly delighted that he hadn’t insisted that Jarnverr change it.

Of course, Jarnverr liked to think that Loki had allowed it because Jarnverr had been happy with it himself. Those colors felt right. Sure, they would remind _some_ people of those weird insects, but Jarnverr was pretty sure that his decision to pain his armor those colors went beyond a desire to irk Loki.

Red and gold were linked to his past, somehow.

A beach at sunset?

Blood and riches?

The pain in his head predicting a migraine appeared so suddenly that Jarnverr had to groan and lie down. Fine, he wouldn’t think of blood and riches. He wanted to know what it meant, why his own head refused him the memory, but it didn’t really matter in the end, did it? He was to eat, and then to join Loki in the arena-

The door burst open. Loki strode into the room in a black and green leather tunic and pants. His joyful expression shifted to annoyance in an eye blink.

“Making a fool of yourself so early in the day, pet?”

“Will you stop calling me that?” Jarnverr moaned, covering his eyes with one hand. “I didn’t even try to remember. I just did.”

He sensed how Loki hesitated at the foot of the bed. Jarnverr half-hoped that the god would insist that he spell out what he’d just ‘remembered’.

“Sit,” Loki ordered at last with that steely voice that never failed to heat Jarnverr’s blood. “Eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” Jarnverr mumbled, but he rose to a sitting position nevertheless, relieved and angry at himself for that relief.

The god narrowed his eyes at him. With a flick of his wrist, he magicked the chair in the corner of the room just behind him and sat down, crossing his legs as he did so. Jarnverr kept his eyes on Loki’s face. Thankfully, the pain was already abating.

“Eat,” Loki growled.

Jarnverr looked down at his plate. Sighed. The first bite of fruit went down with a fight, but the next was easier. By the time he’d torn into the now cold piece of steak, he felt hunger for the first time that morning.

“I’ve already eaten,” Loki said when Jarnverr met his eyes with a raised brow. “And you need all the strength you can get. Midgardians are so-”

“Fragile, weak, yeah, yeah, I know the song,” Jarnverr cut him, slicing almost violently through his steak. “And you’re gonna beat the Midgardian into the ground. No need to shove the fact in my face.”

Loki’s lips twitched.

“My, my, aren’t you frisky this morning, Jarnverr. Any bad dream you want to share?”

Jarnverr threatened his own face to a dire future should it blush. The skin stayed pale.

“I’m just considering how I’m going to feel like a fool after the fight.”

“I thought you were looking forward to trying out that armor of yours? Is that no longer the case?”

Loki had leaned forwards, and Jarnverr froze on the spot, his fork always to his lips.

“I… am. Looking forward to the fight. I’m just…”

Tired of not remembering, tired of wanting _you_ and knowing I’m a fool for it.

“I guess I’m just in a bad mood.”

“Well, then, perhaps the fight is just what you need, pet.”

“If you ‘pet’ me again-”

“What?” Loki asked in mock fear. “Are you going to hurt me?” When Jarnverr failed to answer, he added: “You are delusional, _pet_ , if you think you can win; the only thing you will do in that fight is bite the dust after I’m done playing with you.”

Jarnverr hesitated. Part of him ached to try and put Loki in his place (which he couldn’t do without risking bodily harm), whereas another part of him wanted to bare his neck and ask Loki to please play with him right now (which he could do, but it probably wouldn’t work in his favor either).

He put down his fork and pouted. “Well, I _could_ offer a challenge if you’d accepted to add some punch to parts of my armor, because hello, you’re like ten times stronger than me, and every punch I get through will feel like a caress.”

“Which will please my father.”

“Is that the goal then?”

“I am not sure yet.”

Jarnverr crossed his hands under his chin. “Somehow, in the short time I’ve known you, I’ve come to believe that you never do something without a plan, and a back-up plan.”

“What a striking sense of observation you’ve got, Jarnverr. Truly impressive.”

“Were you born annoying, or is that something you’ve practiced in that impossible long life of yours, Loki?”

“I would watch your temper if I were you, mortal." The dangerous gleam in Loki’s eyes made Jarnverr feel cold all over. “In private I might decide to indulge you because you interest me, but in public I am your better by far. I am your prince.”

Nervously, Jarnverr licked his lips. “Yes, _prince_ Loki.”

The mere idea that he could hurt the stunning being sitting in front of him seemed laughable, but Jarnverr hadn’t been so engrossed in his work that he’d failed to notice the suspicion he was under. Prince Thor, Loki’s older brother, certainly belonged to the Mortals Don’t Belong on Asgard’s group, and to be perfectly honest, Jarnverr wasn’t so sure why he was allowed to stay. Could Loki’s interest in his memories and the technology of his world be enough to keep him here, safe?

“Tea?”

Jarnverr’s head snapped up. “No, thank you.”

The god’s smile was knowing. Jarnverr scoffed. Loki was well aware that Jarnverr didn’t want that awful beverage called tea, but rather… something he couldn’t quite name, but tasted very different, and much better. Something…

“So? Any reason you’re here, beside annoying me?”

“I am merely being a polite host.”

“Right..."

He had fun on Asgard, teasing a god, right? Why would he want to go back? Whatever he’d had, it couldn’t beat what was now his life.

But the dreams, the rational part of his mind argued. Don’t you want to know what pepper and green eyes, what all that blood is about? Don’t you want to understand why you fear the god currently looking at you like you belong to him?

Don’t you want to have the option to go back to what once was?

Don’t you want to know who you are? Before you bleed out and die because your mind keeps you out…

“If you persist in squeezing that delicate mug so much, pet, I’m afraid it will break.”

“Everything breaks in the end,” Jarnverr heard himself saying, as if from far, far away. When had he picked up that mug of tea? He put it down swiftly. “That’s just the ways things are. Entropy is a law all on its own.”

“Entropy can be thwarted, redirected,” Loki replied smoothly, picking up a pastry, and why, _why_ did that bit of red fruit had to get stuck at the corner of his mouth, practically begging Jarnverr to jump into the god’s lap to lick those smooth-looking lips clean.

Jarnverr groaned inwardly but jumped on the opportunity to discuss science. Loki knew of his reluctance to admit magic and wouldn’t hesitate to explain some of his ‘tricks’ (but not the most interesting, of course) into details, and besides, Jarnverr had found himself remembering some trivial things when engaged in such discussions, details so trivial that his head didn’t even hurt. Science came back to him, one tidbit of wonderfulness at a time.

“What is that Large Hadron Collider?” Loki asked, licking his fingers clean.

Jarnverr’s blue balls were going to kill him before his head did. He breathed in deeply and rubbed at his goatee lest he indulged in that new nervous tick and traced the large scar at his throat.

“I-”

Those words, ‘Large Hadron Collider’, had just left his mouth, but he could have sworn he hadn’t even known of their existence one minute ago. He thought them anew. Large Hadron Collider. Oh, _that_. The details slowly made their way up to his consciousness, as if they’d just drifted away. As his head didn’t hurt, he explained whatever he could remember to Loki.

“You were obviously a skilled scientist and engineer on your world," the god mused aloud. "Perhaps those skills of yours were feared by others, who used science to hurt you.”

“You don’t really believe that last part, do you?”

Loki shook his head. “My magic is more powerful than anything a Midgardian, or several Midgardians, could achieve over millennia. If it was science behind your amnesia, I would have found a way to reverse it already.”

“And yet you couldn’t,” Jarnverr said without thinking.

Loki’s whole body froze.

“I mean-”

“I know what you meant,” Loki said in much too level voice. “If your intent had been to insult my magic, you would have regretted it immensely, mortal.”

Jarnverr thought it best to keep his mouth shut for now. Slowly, much too slowly, Loki relaxed in his seat.

“I am powerful, but there are beings whose might is well beyond mine.”

That sliver of fear Jarnverr often experienced in the god’s company spread until his throat felt tight and his lungs constricted by a giant fist. The sensation of cold persisted, as did that echo of pain he couldn't quite place.  

“Who?” he blurted out.

“Do you think you would have known every enemy who’d mean you harm even with the full use of your memory, Jarnverr?”

Enemy. _Enemy. **Enemy.**_ Jarnverr massaged his temples, willing the buzzing headache away. “Probably not,” he gritted between his teeth. “Does that mean we have no clues, no hints, _nothing_?”

In the blink of an eye, Loki was on his feet, and all their breakfast, including the plate and mug in front of Jarnverr, was gone.

“Hey, I wasn’t done with-”

“The fight will start soon,” Loki cut him with a severe expression. “You shouldn’t gorge yourself before then, pet.”

“I am not _gorging_ myself, and you still haven't told me who are those beings you were talking ab- Damn it.”

Jarnverr glared at the spot from which the god had just vanished into thin air.

*

To his utter annoyance, his path crossed with Fandral's, who looked much too delighted by the coincidence for Jarnverr's taste.

“Good morning to you, Midgardian! How fare you?”

“I fare fine,” Jarnverr muttered. “The arena’s this way, right?”

“Precisely. I was going there myself. May I accompany you?”

Hell no.

“If you must…”

“I insist.”

At least Fandral’s presence at his side meant that the flock of curious Asgardians would leave him alone. As one of prince Thor’s best friends (or so Jarnverr had come to understand), Fandral was respected among his pairs…

… which was something Jarnverr should not forget, even if the blond asshole had just called his beautiful armor a ‘thing’ again, and to his own face to boot. Oh, how good it would feel to punch that blond idiot in the face, because that was what idiots deserved for daring insult his genius and-

He stumbled backwards, knuckles going white in the gauntlets. A genius. He’d thought he was good with his hands, but a genius was something else entirely. Was this why his memory was being kept from him? Because he knew things-

“Are you quite all right, Jarnverr?”

Fire seemed to lance through his arm as the other man’s arm landed on his shoulder to steady him. Jarnverr jerked back, knowing that he must look distraught, but unable to smooth his expression into a neutral mask just yet. He could feel a sharp pain at his nape threatening to become a full-blown migraine, and all this because he may or may not have been a genius…

… with a relationship to pepper…

… who wanted to fight as much as he dreaded the moment he would come to stand in front of Loki…

… green eyes…

… _green eyes…_

 _… **green eyes**_ …

Stop thinking, he ordered himself. Fucking stop ruining your life!

He met Fandral’s concerned gaze. “I’m fine,” he managed to get out. “I… I’ll just walk the rest of the way alone, ok? I need… I just need…”

What he needed was so very complicated…

… Loki-shaped…

STOP. THINKING!

Fandral was much closer suddenly. He didn’t try to touch him, but his eyes seemed to do what his hands couldn’t; caress, understand.

Jarnverr shivered, but it wasn’t out of desire.

“If you ever need someone to talk to, I will be there for you, Jarnverr of Midgard. You can trust me.”

With a sharp nod, Jarnverr stepped back and jogged the rest of the way. As the wide corridors seemed to shrink on both sides, he could only think of two things.

First, he absolutely didn’t want to hurt Loki. For some reason he couldn’t quite comprehend, a reason, perhaps, related to those dreams he couldn’t remember about a past that didn’t make any sense because the handsome god of mischief was a part of it and yet wasn’t, he couldn’t bear the thought of harming the god in any way. As his eyes dropped to the gold and red vambrace shimmering on his arm, he was reminded of the sentient butterflies that Loki deemed so dangerous, those creatures who seemed so interested in _him_ , a mortal being who held no magic at all.

The crowd seemed to get louder with every shaky breath he took. His heart beat pounded madly as he picked up speed, practically running now. At least, there was no one to see him lose his mind; they were all gathered in the arena, probably waiting anxiously for the mortal in their midst to lose his pride instead.

He pressed a hand to his chest as he slowed down to a walk. He couldn’t feel the strange contraption through the thick dwarfish metal, but he could imagine his heart attempting to escape the confines of his chest through it. A sharp pain right where the metal device was caused him to gasp. He stumbled sideways, and held out a hand to steady himself. His head spun.

He couldn’t harm Loki. What he was feeling right now was fear, he realized. But not the fear of being exposed and judged; a fear more incomprehensible but nonetheless real.

He was afraid to hurt Loki. To lose the only link to his past.

And the second thought that had sunk its claws into his mind was sister to this fear. Jarnverr mused about the incredible fact, the insane _truth_ , that the fear Loki inspired in him was so tightly bound to his attraction that he actually didn’t mind the prospect of being hurt by the god.

The idea actually thrilled him, so much that his heart didn’t slow down, but instead sped up even further for a whole new set of reasons.

His legs were steady as he covered the last of the distance still separating him from his opponent.

From this stranger who wasn’t.

As he opened the large double doors and strode into the arena under the blazing sun of Asgard, arousal and fear receded until only determination remained.

He faced Loki with a grin.

“My prince.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... next on Memories of a Future Past, the fight! (and Loki's reaction to Jarnverr being so... attractive and confident, despite his obvious disadvantage).
> 
> On a side note: I may or may not try and update _Username: GodofMischief_ next.


	12. The Weakness of Temptation (Loki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt totally worn out after the job (the paid one anyway), but I just had to finish that chapter because... well, it begged to annoy the hell out of you, dear readers ^^' Still hope you like it in spite of the... well, twist? *goes hide away and la-la-la to self*

Jarnverr kneeled in the sand and bowed.

_"My prince."_

Even with his head lowered, Jarnverr's mirth was very obvious in his voice. Loki stood very still. He could sense the Allfather's eyes on him, and the curious gaze of his mother. Soon enough, however, all that attention shifted to Jarnverr, and how could it not?

The mortal was stunning in his armor. Iron Man indeed, Loki mused, even though iron definitely wasn't what made up the various parts of this ingenious exoskeleton; it was much more precious, just as the man who'd bent it to his will in order to wear it like land did a kingdom.

Loki allowed but the tiniest of smirks to grace his lips. He was very glad now that he hadn't stayed with Jarnverr until the mortal was fully suited up, or he might have been tempted to rip that annoying gold-and-red beauty off his tempting body to finally look and touch at this heart's content... He wanted to lick the scars he knew by heart after a fortnight of watching over his pet's sleep, wanted to startle helpless keens and moans from the mortal, wanted to watch him thrash wildly on Loki's bed, inking his green sheets with sweat as he was being driven mad with desire. It would be so  _easy_ to overpower him, and he could see it happening only too easily. Jarnverr wanted him, too; all the signs were there. His pet  _liked it_ when Loki went possessive (ballistic, an annoying voice supplied), and Loki had a possessive streak a mile wide that he would happily indulge in to see more of those blushes, dilated pupils and wet lips-

Enough with the distractions, he scolded himself, squaring his shoulders minutely as Jarnverr shot to his feet, invited by the Allfather to take position in the blue ring traced in the sand. Loki already stood in his own several feet away. He let his father explain the rules and had to suppress a snort of disbelief when Odin said that the fight would stop when 'one of the contenders stayed on the ground'. While Loki knew how that duel would end, he couldn't understand why his father would phrase it so while there was absolutely no way the King of Asgard would let a mortal on probation-

Ah. Loki caught her mother's discreet nod and tried to smile in return, but unease stirred in his chest. He loved her dearly, but she was still testing his pet, still looking after her son… who had looked after himself for centuries now. Mistakes could be made, even if Loki wasn't known for them. Miracles could happen whenever the Norns grew bored. There was one chance in several billions, but Jarnverr could have a strike of luck and draw one of Asgard's princes' blood… in which case the fight would be brought to an end immediately.

And the Midgardian punished, for daring injure a member of the royal family.

Loki locked gazes with Jarnverr. The mortal still looked more confident than he had any right to be, but then he didn't know the rules, only that this was a show and a pretense. He couldn't be aware of this tradition, with how Loki had recounted his occasional fights in the arena where he'd  _bled_ against another one of Thor's band of merry warriors, or more often, at his brother's own hands.

Loki buried a violent surge of anger under the fine veneer of determination he'd already smoothed over his face. The gleam in Jarnverr's eyes mirrored his own.

"Let the fight begin!" the Allfather's voice boomed.

The crowd, which had been quite loud up to this point, went silent. Loki could hear the rattle of Jarnverr's armors as the mortal moved slightly out of the circle, towards him. Ever the fiery and fearless one, his little pet, wasn't he?

Loki smiled invitingly.

"Would you like for me to play with you a bit, or shall I give you a real taste of power?"

Annoyance crossed Jarnverr's features.

"Well," he replied slowly, advancing towards the god with his gauntlets raised in a dual show of attack and defense. "That depends. Am I allowed to play with you if you give me a… taste, prince Loki?"

Loki's ice-cold control on his expression slipped a little, but quickly the mask of the benevolent opponent was back on.

"Is that your answer, mortal?"

The mortal hunched his shoulders, that simple gesture producing a series of  _clangs_ in the quiet arenas.

"I believe it is."

Loki took pity on him and dealt the first blow, a straight punch that had nothing subtle or very powerful about it.

Jarnverr stepped sideways and made grabby hands for the god's arm, but already Loki was moving away, dancing around the mortal, and kicking him behind one knee.

He'd measured his strength well, he mused, watching with interest as Jarnverr almost but not quite dropped to his knees. Without his armor, the mortal would have gone to the ground, no question asked. With it… The challenge was still inexistent, but at least Loki may get to work a bit of a sweat and stop thinking about how this short-lived, fragile being was much more than the simple labels all the spectators had no doubt already given him.

Because Jarnverr was witty, sarcastic, strong-willed and so, so clever, as he dashed out of the way before Loki could hit him again and retaliated with a blow strong enough it would have knocked Loki's off his feet, had they both been Aesirs. Loki grinned, unable not to show some of his appreciation for an opponent who knew of their shortcomings but kept fighting anyway, kept being so very  _clever_. It was kind of sweet, really, that Jarnverr hesitated for half a second every time he managed to pierce Loki's guard (every time Loki  _let_ him), as if to make sure his opponent wasn't hurt, as if a mortal could hurt a god  _and_ a sorcerer.

Loki hit Jarnverr flat-handed in the chest, then let the mortal have a go at him, only to deflect a sideway kick and bring his elbow up in the split second that followed, hitting the mortal precisely where he'd meant to. Again, he'd used but a fraction of his strength, and he was glad of it as the mortal embraced the battle lust and launched himself into the duel with a savage growl.

Even aroused by that wild power, Loki blocked the next blow with ease, and the one after that, too. To his surprise, he sensed his body's temperature rising by small increments, but that might not have much to do with the fight itself, even if Jarnverr was proving an interesting opponent in style, if not in strength. That amnesia of his, as Loki had suspected, seemed not to have damaged his muscle memory.

"You could learn to dance," he teased, redirecting his center of gravity to allow Jarnverr into his personal space.

"I- don't- dance!"

"Oh, but you do, my dear pet," Loki purred, and proceeded to yank Jarnverr to him, lift the mortal off the ground and throw him over his shoulder like he weighed nothing, because one human male and dwarfish armor were both very light.

He swiveled on his feet. The mortal was already scrambling back to his feet. He might not present any danger in a physical fight, but his hidden memories, the way he appealed to the butterflies, the ease with which he seduced  _Loki_ without even trying, apparently, made him very dangerous.

Even more so because Loki found himself less and less willing to fight him outside this duel.

From confident and amused, he became annoyed.

Loki Odinson wasn't one to let locks remain untouched for long. If he had the key, he opened the lock. If he didn't, he sought it out and claimed it. And if the key didn't exactly fit the lock but could be made to crack it, he borrowed inspiration from his brother and used brute force.

If mortals hadn't been so terribly fragile… Frustration swelled within him, and he bent his knees, stepped aside in a lightning-fast movement, forcing Jarnverr to break his balance. Loki sent him flying back with a well-aimed punch under the crowd's cheers. Of course, no spectator beside his own family (or rather, his mother) would make such enthusiastic ruckus should Loki perform a feat of magic instead…

Small minds, all of them.

He locked eyes with Jarnverr. The mortal had landed hard on his rear end with a curse but was back on his feet as if he had springs in his boots, perhaps partly because of his suit, which kept making noises as though it possessed an extension of his creator's mind. A brilliant mind.

Loki mentally shouted at himself to stay focused on what mattered, and it was a nice counsel from himself to himself, because Jarnverr thrust one boot in the sand and  _kicked_ , a vicious move that would have blinded Loki, had the god not reacted fast enough.

The mischief of such an action struck a chord in Loki's heart. His jaw dropped, but only for a heartbeat.

"Can't get me to stay still, can you?" Jarnverr taunted, visibly pleased by the god's reaction.

Loki stepped forwards even as his heart picked up speed. His blood started to boil in his veins. How could a mere mortal be so intoxicating, so appealing in both appearances and mind, and to top it all, pray unconsciously to the mischief Loki personified? Loki swallowed hard but went on testing Jarnverr while he fought inwardly with himself. He kept holding back, though, and so did Jarnverr, because for some reason the mortal couldn't seem to want and hit him, and of course he wouldn't, not really, because he was the one who would help and absolve him of crimes he hadn't yet committed…

 _I like danger,_ Jarnverr had said.

_Everything breaks in the end. That's just the ways things are._

He packed slightly more strength in his next blow than he would have with fewer distractions and watched Jarnverr's eyes widen in surprise in the slits of his mask as the smell of blood erupted in the air.

"Jarnverr," Loki breathed out, that one word inaudible for anyone but himself.

Heart pounding madly all of a sudden, he cast a spell so discreetly and so quickly he doubted anyone but his mother would notice, and recognize it for what it was: a healing spell. A bit botched, yes, but it would serve its purpose and stop the bleeding.

Jarnverr's eyes still showed too much white as he tested yet again Loki's defenses. He was also sweating profusely; Loki could smell it alongside the drying blood and the unique musk that was his pet's.

"I  _will_ win this fight, Jarnverr."

"Are you sure?"

By the Norns, but the mortal was laughing at him! If Loki wasn't so enthralled by everything the man did, and also, totally aroused by the lack of fawning owed to someone of his status, he would have stopped playing with his prey and went straight for the kill… metaphorically, of course; he still had much to learn, such as  _why_ Jarnverr went to great lengths to facilitate Loki's job of kicking his mortal ass and yet hadn't hesitated one second to attack when he'd been wakened from a dream. A dream portraying a green-eyed  _someone_.

"I am quite sure", he purred, placing a foot behind Jarnverr's left heel and pulling hard, forcing the mortal down. "Let me show you… here, was it so hard?"

The crowd was completely delirious by now. Loki laughed quietly as he crouched by the mortal's side and extended one hand, channeling a reasonable amount of strength to maintain Jarnverr on his back. To his surprise, Jarnverr managed to fight him a bit, that is, until Loki began to treat him like an Aesir.

"Dwarfish metal  _is_ powerful."

Eventually, he backed away, now quite interested in seeing how long Jarnverr would last. They spared for a while more, Loki only half-pretending that he didn't need any effort to fend off the mortal's attacks; those may be weakening over time, but Jarnverr had an iron will that honored his name.

Out of curiosity, Loki even decided to let Jarnverr hit him. When the fist struck his jaw, Loki drank in Jarnverr's reaction.

The mortal stepped back. "Oh fuck?" The words sounded like a question.

The crowd became wild when Loki let his body fold onto itself and his knees hit the ground. He could hear Thor shout something vaguely belligerent, but he knew that Frigga would control him, because she knew how her youngest fought, and if not the rules of the game he was playing, the outlines of the game itself. Odin's voice boomed over the shouting crowd, demanding order.

Loki lifted his head, staring straight at a distraught-looking Jarnverr. The mortal, the fool, had lifted his mask and sank to one knee. A bead of sweat rolled down his brow and followed the path of his nose. Blood was smeared under his nostrils, wet over his upper lip.

Loki wanted to lick it so badly.

"Loki? I mean, my Prince?"

Jarnverr's voice was rougher than usual, and with each word spoken, more worried. Loki allowed a trickle of blood to roll down his own lip, an illusion for Jarnverr's eyes only.

Jarnverr shed his right gauntlet without even looking at it and leaned towards Loki, who tuned off Thor's shouts and let some of his curiosity bleed into his otherwise expressionless face. Two drops of blood rolled down his chin.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry!" Jarnverr's hand hovered over what he thought was a cut on the god's cheek. He radiated worry and incredulity, which suited both Loki's ego and the circumstances. "Are you ok? I mean, should I be that powerful? It shouldn't…" Jarnverr trailed off but his wide, brown eyes searched Loki's face for something he didn't seem to find.

Loki suppressed a wistful smile. Part of him wished to cup the mortal's chin and bring their mouths together, to taste the mystery he'd already heard and watched at length. How would a Midgardian with such fire kiss? Would he moan loudly, or try to swallow the sounds Loki's skilled mouth and tongue coaxed from him? Another part of him whispered something along the lines of 'be patient', 'take your time', and Loki knew that he ought to take that option, even if his body burnt with desire. They were in public, after all. Besides, it wouldn't do to make the first move. Jarnverr would have to act first, so that Loki didn't feel like the fool he knew that he was.

Still, that didn't mean that Loki couldn't have some fun, and so he pushed the mortal on his back and threw a leg over him, straddling him at the hips and pinning his shoulders down with one hand just below his hidden collarbones.

Instead of protesting, Jarnverr started babbling again, and Loki's eyes were drawn to the mortal's lips. When calloused fingers brushed the false cut on his cheek, the heat in his chest spread like wildfire.

"Is it painful-  _Oh_."

Jarnverr just stared at him then, and for at least a handful of seconds too much, Loki wondered  _why_. Was there blood on his face, blood that didn't belong to him (obviously)? Or perhaps there was something else written on his frozen features, something far worse and unknown, because Loki could feel his magic pulsing enthusiastically thorough his body, shimmering under his skin like all the stars he couldn't see right now because those brown eyes  _studied_ him as intensely as he watched over this mortal's sleep and oh, but it burnt, his magic chanting in his veins, bound to his lust like water to life-

"Oh," repeated Jarnverr, averting his eyes, and Loki felt like he'd been slapped. Odin's announcement that the fight was over and Frigga's piercing gaze on him didn't register. The crowd's buzzing hardly mattered. Loki now knew what was wrong.

He was fully erect.

He was harder than he'd ever been… and Jarnverr wasn't. The mortal smelled slightly of arousal, but then mortal men were usually caught in the throes of lust whenever they fought, and they fought often and at length.

He was aroused by a mortal, who merely felt blood lust like every Aesir in this arena.

Why had Loki ever thought that someone could ever fit him? If no one he'd met in more than a millennium could truly understand him, what were the chances that a lesser being like this one could truly offer a match to his soul.

The prophecy felt like a hand to his throat, squeezing harder and harder as Jarnverr just turned a darker shade of red. The burning sensation in his chest wasn't his magic acting out again, or what was left of his abating lust.

It was shame.

He had to get out of here.


End file.
